Mother
nature has played a cruel joke on us here in the South. You see, like all of
you, we here have suffered another bitterly cold winter. So cold that I know of
men and women who work for the power companies who’ve been working almost
non-stop since the first blast of arctic air made its way into our lives. The
weather has been so awful that I have not really been able to enjoy my favorite
writing spot. My front porch that is. Nope, I’ve been mostly relegated to
writing while sitting up in bed or trying to write while sitting on my couch
because the bitter cold, the snow, the incessant rain that pelts you from all
sides that feel like ten thousand needles penetrating your skin makes sitting
outside in nature a difficult task if not damn near impossible.
Whatever
the obstacles put before me have been, be they thrust upon my by nature or
duties to my family and work, I’ve still managed to persevere in my
communication. This is not news, but it feels good to say. Yet I can’t help but
think, with all the chronic comments and complaints I hear from people in my
daily life, that others are just as put out as I am in these thoughts that
Mother Nature is playing some sort of cruel joke on us. Which brings me back to
my original sentence.
The cruel
joke.
You see,
just a few short days ago, here in the south, the mercury rose above seventy
for the first time in what seems like eons. Birds chirped with glee, squirrels
chased each other frantically, dogs that normally bark like the world is ending
as you passed by their house seemed to just be happy to feel the warmth of a
yellow glow on their skins. Yes, all around us, even the trees seemed to have
let out a collective sigh of relief that the long cold winter was over. Then
the temperatures dropped to the upper thirties. That night. Almost no warning,
with the exception of the weather Nazis on television. Yup, our brief respite
in the death cycle of seasons merely a mirage. A mirage quickly replaced by
rain, bone chilling wind and foggy breath for those brave enough to venture out
into the atmosphere of arctic air that seemed to have found a new home here.
Which is
funny in a way to me.
You see, as
a person gets older, you hear about “Snow-Birds”. They are the people who live
in the northern climates during the summer months, and when the witch of
November begins her lengthy exhale, they head south. Places like Florida, Arizona,
New Mexico and Texas become havens for pale faced elderly people with more
disposable income than they have days left on this planet. Used to be, I felt
sorry for these folks, thinking how unlucky they are to miss out on the gasping
vestiges of a season as it slowly goes into a slumber, only to awaken months
later in joyous harmony and bloom. A season filled with energy, life and the
ability to ensure that the life they are enjoying will be passed on. Right now, I think I may have been wrong.
You see, I’m
fast approaching my forty-eighth year and I’m beginning to think that chasing
the sun and its infinite healing warmth may be a respectable goal. Yet, inside
me, deep inside where all the super-secrets and regrets of life lie in a coffin
that is encased in concrete while surrounded by metal that is coated with three
inches of rust-proof while anchored to the core of the molten core of the earth
with magma proof chains is the little kid in me who used to love winter. A kid
so enamored with the cold and white flakes from the sky he never realized the
beauty of the stark gray countryside until it was almost too late. A scenery of
bare beauty that was only hinted at in the movie “Fargo”. Yet the desire for
the sparseness and empty plains of white drifting off into a dark gray horizon
haunt my dreams to this day. Yes, there is a part of me that yearns for those
days. Endless rows of empty fields where not even an animal would dare tread
for fear of being on the supper table of a starving farmer.
Yes, I
still think fondly of those Wisconsin winter days. Where the morning snow is a
deep ruddy black and gray that slowly fades to white and the imprints of child
sized snow boots scatter across otherwise pristine lawns. Footprints that if
analyzed by a CSI would show a great battle had occurred there not twelve hours
earlier. A battle that held the stakes of every citizen in the solar system,
nee, every citizen in the universe in the clutches of its outcome. Empty snow
forts with abysmally made mutant snowmen standing guard in cul-de-sacs and
front yards that had once hosted squeals of glee and vehemence, all in good
natured fun, slowly melting and soon to look like some sort of menagerie of a
madman with a blowtorch fill my mind lost scenes from my own youth. Yah, I
guess in one sense of the word I miss the neck high to a giraffe snow drifts.
But another part of me, the part that is quickly approaching embittered middle
age, I say my bones are weary. My bones ache. The earth is not only for the
living but the young.
Bring me
tepid temperatures where I can enjoy the simple fruits of my labors without
soaking my hands and body in water that reaches upwards to one-hundred and ten
degrees just so the feeling of life will return to my aged and aching bones.
I’m done
Mother Nature, I surrender and hoist a white flag in your honor. I’m too tired,
too, worn out and too cold to endure a spring where the average temperature is
less than my double digit age.
Have a
great and warm week everyone.
No comments:
Post a Comment