Here's to the first day of spring

First of all I think “Old Man Winter” should read the book, “The Language of Letting Go.” I think the crusty cold curmudgeon has some serious issues.

Secondly, if he doesn’t let go soon, I will put on my “Gandalf” hat, slam my wooden scepter into an axe-handle deep snow bank, utter loudly “You Shall Not Pass!” and send winter into an abyss.

And thirdly—in the words of Forrest Gump—“That’s all I have to say about that.”

Besides, it’s March 20^th and no matter what else is going on outside, nothing can override the fact that this is the first day of spring!!

It’s due time to bang the drum for what I believe is to be an astronomically welcomed season. 

Emily Dickinson wrote some wonderful words of wisdom in her poems.  “I dwell in possibility . . .” is a favorite “Sage Emily” line.

“I dwell in possibility” sums up how I feel about what’s coming. Smell those rain showers, listen to that thunderstorm, see those daffodils peeking out of the flowerbed, and give me a rake!!  

Dickinson also wrote a fine little poem about hope.

Stand at the window and look outside at all the snow and repeat after me;

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.”

My friend and I enjoy good conversation and of late, all the talk is centered around the harbingers of spring—those sights, sounds and olfactory markers that herald the long-awaited greener pastures, ice-out, and sailing waters.

There we are, sitting at the kitchen table swapping exciting stories about seeing clusters of newly awakened flies buzzing in the porch window and the odd ladybug or two that suddenly has appeared crawling up the wall while she spits green gunk from her bottom end. Signs of spring. Yes. We are overjoyed at these futuristic indicators.

I think most grown ups would agree that the coming of spring has been a celebratory part of life since childhood. Who doesn’t remember their own rubber boots in April puddles at ages five, eight, and 10? Or that twig stick used to make little river beds in the gravel that would drain the water puddles of melting snow and gush them flowing out of the yard.

What did you float and race in those streams?

For my friend it was half of a clothespin that called itself a boat. For me it was half of a matchbox or a little piece of cardboard. These were the heralds that spoke to us of spring.

Soon the palette of color that the sunrise bakes across the horizon of a melting Rainy Lake will fill us up. My mother’s geranium and moonflower seedlings already are germinated and soon the pepper plants will find their way through the potting soil and into the sunlight.

Today, I see the raven. This harbinger of spring sits on a fence post on the country road not far from the nest in the tree. He and his mate begin this guarding ritual in late February each year. Seeing them is a most welcome sight as they greet and brave the cold, holding on to the inevitable promise of warmer days and the laying of eggs.

Baby chicks, pussy willows, leaf buds on trees, green grass around the septic tank, and thawing smelly dog poop—yes—even that recycled harbinger of spring will soon have its moment in the spotlight.

I would even venture to say that seeing a spider in the house would be a welcome omen . . . but that was before I found one crawling on the inside arch of my foot while I was in the shower last night.

I thought it was sock fuzz until, when I tried to flick it off; it got stuck to my index finger. I had an immediate freak out in the bathtub as I tried to boil it off with the showerhead before it fell down the drain. Then I imagined it clinging to the drain hole until the middle of the night, when it would crawl up and out and be waiting for me on the toilet seat in the morning. Oh my.

Nevertheless, as Dickinson writes, “Spring Comes on the World.”

I sight the Aprils too, Miss Emily, and I dwell in the possibility of it all.  

Looking forward to a winter goodbye

I threw myself into deep snow on Saturday and lay there for 20 minutes in the silence of my neck of the woods. I had just finished snow blowing and I was tired and once again drained of any enthusiasm for winter.

In fact I’d had a run in with my snow blower, known in these parts as “Little John” when he knocked me down while I had the machine in reverse. Thank heaven for automatic shut off when I let go of the handles or I’d have been a real mess.

The knock down got me really crabby for a few minutes. I hated the world and the world hated me. Some choice expletives flew out of my mouth to nobody listening.

I’d also filled my brainless quota that morning when I forgot to put down the garage door and not paying attention walked by with “Little John” full out and blew half of the yard’s snow into the garage.

I had a “Yosemite Sam” fit and then decided to seek sanctuary in a snow bank and be grateful for some good stuff. I rarely get outright angry anymore and I didn’t like the feeling and needed a karmic rescue.

I was flung out like a discarded puppet in the snow, perfectly still and uttering many a “thank you” out loud to the Universe, when I saw a pair of ravens flying overhead. 

One of the black birds spotted my carcass and veered off its path, gliding in slow circles down, down, down, to get a better view of what it thought might be a tasty morsel.

I actually expected it might land nearby and I was ready as rain to jump up and scare the feathers off the winged beast if it tried to peck my eyes out like a scene from “The Birds.” 

Lucky for Mr. Raven, it decided to join its buddy that already had flown across the field and disappeared.

I laid there a few more minutes until the cold seeped into my ski pants and dropped my core body temperature enough to stir me to rise up and head for the house and a nice cup of tea, all the while searching the immediate grounds for any sign or suggestion that spring was in the forecast.

As I drew closer to the house I heard Bonnie Raitt’s sultry voice flow out of the stereo and through my mind, and I hailed her song to the harbingers of spring “I Got You On My Mind,” hoping the magic of my words would hurry Mother Nature along.

Old frozen dog poop unmasked and shredded by “Little John” lay about the yard like an old smelly friend as if to say, “just wait, I’ll let you know when spring as arrived.”

Touché “Dot.”

All I know for sure is that March 20^th fast approaches and at that dawn, even if it is snowing like the dickens, I am going to stand up and cheer, “Spring is here!”

Baby boomers have the floor

Van Morrison is singing “School of Hard Knocks” as I stare at my laptop screen dumbfounded at the blank page that is idea-deprived.

I do have material to call upon for inspiration including “Better than Sex – Chocolate Principles to Live By,” followed by the tried and true Mark Nepo and Melody Beattie editions. No light bulb moments here.

Now Van Morrison is singing “Enlightenment” and belts out, “Don’t know what it is.”

Hmmm.  Is he trying to tell me something?

A copy of “TurboTax” for my yet unfinished income tax doldrums day stares at me from across the desk. I groan when I think of the inevitability of calculating a “balance owing” number on line 483.

A report on women of the baby boomer generation—that would be me—is at my fingertips.

It says that baby boomer women have freedom, hectic schedules, resources, and a taste for quality.

Hmmm. I ponder that foursome for a while.

I am puzzled about resources. If we are talking about books and chocolate, I’m set up like a pyramid in Egypt.

Come to think about I have a lot of resources I can count on, although none of them include multiple polymer images of Sir Robert Borden or W.L. Mackenzie King. It’s a pity.

Freedom? Now there’s fodder for a 500-word essay—maybe 700 if I’m on a roll. But I’m still trying to figure out what freedom means to me, so that’s another story.

The report also states that boomer women grew up in an age of rebellion. Really? I can’t relate to that life stage—unless we’re talking about my uprising against ironing clothes.

That chore accounted for three-quarters of my weekly allowance when I was a kid, and I swore to myself that when I left for college I would invent wrinkle-free everything, including “Caldwell” towels.

Sadly someone else already had taken that brand name and ran with it all the way to the bank.

Hectic schedules? They are a constant and unrelenting thorn in my baby boomer underwear.

But I won’t complain too much. After all I am the first to agree that life is what we make of it.

However the fact that my current calendar is a combination of a Tasmanian devil in a sandstorm and two cougars in a gunny sack fighting over a piece of meat means it’s cruising for change. 

The report says boomer women aren’t afraid to take chances. Some things are true whether we believe them or not.

I take chances.

Boomer women are said to have a taste for quality. Hmmm. Quality can mean many things.

Quality time is a big one for me, followed closely by quality kisses and good dark chocolate. I like quality friends, too, who aren’t afraid to look me in the eye and tell me what’s on their mind. I like a quality connection.

And last but certainly not least—as Van Morrison’s song “Enlightenment” comes back ‘round again—I am reminded of an email sent by a new friend of mine who lives with his wife in a little town in southern Minnesota. He had commented kindly upon reading my column last week when I wrote about intuition.

“Will Rogers, a well-known American humorist back in the 20’s-30’s once said that some of us learn by reading, some of us learn by observation, the rest of us just gotta touch the electric fence for ourselves.”

Ah yes, Don. How true.

I am a woman of the baby boomer generation. I have freedom, hectic schedules, resources, and a taste for quality.

And sometimes I also have to touch the electric fence for enlightenment.

Woohoo!