Some reflections on the turning of the calendar

I hate when the snow melts in the middle of winter. Not only does it remind me of all the yard work we didn't get to last fall (oh, those slimy piles of leaves, the twigs and branches scattered by the winds of November), it's just plain weird. Snow is supposed to pile up from Christmas through January, spend a couple days melting (our classic "January Thaw") but never enough to take it all out. There may be some thin brown spots around some trees, or where the late December blizzards blew the snow cover thin, but mostly enough sticks around so I can pretend the world is still beautiful, still the way I imagine it to be underneath that white blanket. While the neighborhood we live in is nice, there are some areas of Taxville that, well let's just say that a blanket of snow improves their property values. I don't have to see the piles of crap in the Junkman's lawn, I don't have to see the cars up on blocks, the falling-down outbuildings. I can imagine that the barn with the ratty, moss-covered roof and the caved in side is something out of an Impressionist painting. Not that I'm a snob or anything. I could care less what people do or have on their little acres. Much as I don't want them judging mine. I'm sure there are people who shake their heads when they drive by and see that while I know the word "gardening," I'm loathe to practice it. It's just that aesthetically, snow is the rising tide that lifts all boats. A good coating makes us all equal, or as my little Polish grandmother used to say, "covers a multitude of sins."

At least until the rains come.

The world has gotten confused, I fear. In spots I can smell the earth. In spots, the grass is getting too green. No! I want to wave my arms at the earth. We're not ready! You're only going to back into the deep freeze and ice of February and your efforts will be in vain, your tiny shoots will only have just awoken and rubbed their eyes when they will be wiped out by the cold. I'm reminded of ancient Pompeii, where they told us in school that fossils were found showing Etna blew so quickly that dinners were still on the table, families still in their seats.

The squirrels aren't fooled, though. I see them scurrying about, checking their stores of nuts at the bases of the trees, knowing there's still more to come, that the season hasn't given up on us yet, there's still enough room for a little more geographic equality before the final thaw.

At least February, if not the cruelest month, is the shortest. I propose adding the equivalent of April Fool's day to February. By this time of winter, with the gloom and gray and shortened days wearing down our spirits, and even the Groundhog heading back into his den, we could all use a few good jokes.