Looking out my window at snowflakes lilting down.
I was reflecting on a March several years ago when my back
patio (a stamped concrete affair) was put in. The winter was so tepid that year
that early March brought a new patio, garden beds tilled, edged and ready for
planting fruits, veggies and flowers, and a new lifestyle of reading books and
sipping wine in the out of doors. Heaven. In retrospect, it was the mildest,
easiest winter I can recall. Today it is remembered as tropical in comparison
to this year’s offering.
I have this walnut tree in my backyard that rivals the Whomping
Willow from Harry Potter. When the walnuts begin falling, it’s a bit dicey out
back. There are a few branches that extend over my patio. My squirrels are
absolute hooligans and like to perch on those branches and throw walnut shells
at me while I attempt to lounge.
This past autumn, the tree had an absolute plethora of
walnuts on it. I have been here 7 years and had never seen it so covered in bounty.
Now, I’ve never really been a country girl. Small town? Yes. Country? No. I don’t
subscribe to the Farmers’ Almanac. If I did, however, I would have watched that
walnut tree’s production levels and my incredibly plush squirrels and inferred
that March 24 would find flakes falling from the sky. I could have budgeted a
vacation that included sand, all-inclusive drinks, and more sunshine than I’ve
seen in months. I could have bought an industrial shovel, a snow blower, a
hearty man, a shorter driveway. Something.
I didn’t do that. Sniff.
My fingers want to dig in the dirt. I want to bring forward
bounty from the earth. Farrow is so last season.
I spent a portion of yesterday lovingly caressing my spring
dresses in the back of the closet. My soul begs for spring. The skies deliver
more winter.
Stevie, I need you. I need you like I’ve never needed you
before.
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