Somewhere buried deep in my subconsious, I knew this.
When the temperature on my car thermometer hit 54 (54!!) on Saturday, I thought it might be spring.
When we rolled down our windows and drove with the breeze wafting through the car, I thought it might be spring.
When ALL the snow on our garage roof melted, thus eliminating the drips of water (which always then turned to ice) onto our driveway, I thought it might be spring.
When I smelled a skunk late Saturday evening, I thought it might be spring.
When I saw a fox AND a chipmunk on Sunday, I thought it might be spring.
When we set the clocks forward and Sunday was ANOTHER BRIGHT, WARM, SUNNY DAY, I thought it might be spring.
When we went out to a basketball team dinner at 5:30 p.m. and the sun was still shining brightly (and it was still warm) I KNEW it must be spring.
Those infamous words of my first friend in Maine all those years ago, when she told me it's not spring until the forsythias bloom... I forgot all about that.
Somehow the fact that our forsythia bush, which is actually quite large, is still covered by a snowbank, sort of escaped my notice.
Today, all the puddles from the big melt this weekend, have turned to solid ice. Snow is in the forecast. I even heard the weather man say (before I slapped my hands over my ears) that temps might be back down to the teens tomorrow night.
On one hand, this weekend reprieve was heavenly. On the other hand, it was a little cruel of the weather fairies to tease us like that. I dreamed last night that I looked in the mirror and had a tan on my face. THAT is how sun and warmth-deprived we all are.
Yes, it is that time of the year. The time when the whining starts, in tandem with the dragging days of getting used to the one-hour time change.
Oh, and waking up this morning to see how tanned I am NOT, just added insult to injury.
Copyright © 2009 - Paulla Estes