Winter Wondeland

It has been a cold winter, one frigid blast after another. So far, spring hasn’t been much better. It is time to stab Old Man Winter in the heart with an icicle as well as telling the Global Warming Alarmists where to shove an icicle as well.

I am ready for spring. Ready for the sun to shine more warmly and for the earth to send new grass shoots. I am ready to see color, other than black and white, the greens of new leaves, the rainbow of diverse colors in blossoms and flowers. I want to smell new-mown grass, the fragrance of blossoming new life. I want to smell the rich earth turned by a spade and feel it in my fingers.

I am ready to feel grass between my toes, ready to pack away the heavy coats, toboggan hats, and long muffler scarves, and ready to gather the flotsam that has collected over the cold and snowy months. I am ready to see the bees in the hive behind my house flying about collecting nectar for their honey.

I can remember as a kid swimming before the end of April in the cold stream below my parent’s home. It was fed by underground springs and the last of the melting snow and ice. Its course wound in the shadows huge trees, only tickled by occasional rays of the sun, remaining almost the same temperature as when it emerged from its underground sanctuary. I’m too old for this and it’s too cold for this now.

I’m ready for the warm days when we used to play softball, wearing only shorts and T shirts. I guess what I am missing most is my youth. Then I would laugh and play in the cold, relishing the “snow days” that kept me home from school. I reminisce about breaking off an icicle and sucking on it to quench my thirst, not minding that it occasionally tasted of the smoke from coal fired furnaces. I think of the days of youth that sped by like the feeling of careless abandon riding a sled down a steep hill.

Although I can still relish the snowy days of past winter, I am now looking forward to the warmer days of spring.