Spring? Bah! Humbug!

Some things are so clichéd in their ordinariness that even though they occupy my mind intensely, can’t be written about without immediately appearing to be dreary.

Spring, for instance. I could write pages on the thrill of seeing green buds on the Maple tree, the roses reasserting themselves, and waiting for my tansy (illicit though it is in New England) to start it’s summer spread. We use it as an insect repellant.

I could, but I won’t. You’re feeling the same things I am. There’s nothing unique in this to any of us, and nothing unique to this particular year. Yet we all share a sense of surprise, as though each of us has just discovered spring for the first time, and we can’t wait to tell the neighbors “Look!! Winter’s over!” – as though it hasn’t happened before.

Even the miracle, if that’s what it is, of rebirth (not really, just re-growth), new beginnings (perhaps, if you’re a leaf) and warmer days (now that’s a miracle I can believe in!) is dulled by the necessity of itself. Routine, the cycle of the seasons, is all that this is. Winter is as necessary as spring.

The prospect of eating fresh produce direct from the garden in a few weeks from now is a delight. Not even I would argue with that. But remember also the sweat of starting the mower for the first time and lying awake at night unable to sleep in the humid air.

Did anyone celebrate the first ice-storm when that came? Or rejoice at firing up the snow-blower so you could skate your car to work? Shouldn’t we have?