What a hell of a note.
You drag yourself through the first throes of winter in December.
You slog through January.
By February you are singing the blues to beat the band in 18-degree weather.
Then God gives you a reprieve in March.
Ah.
The sun breaks out.
The temperature turns northward, puddles melt.
Could this be it? Signs of spring?
But no. Not enough gray and brown for you?
Wait two days and you get snow.
Black ice on the deck. Whoops go the feet out from under you in a late evening run down the deck to the trash. Really? Seriously? Down goes the bag, bouncing along the 17 steps of terror.
I left it there. All night. At the bottom.
And in the morning, the UPS guy, who is, by now, used to me looking like I have a sideswiped mohawk and no other clothes other than my shorty pjs and thermal undershirt to my name, merely sidestepped it and delivered my package. With a straight face. He knew. He knew what chaos resides only inches away. Yes, he knew. He, who regularly hightails it out of here to the bay of our rescue dog at the door.
Oh, how some days I wish I could follow. Oh, how easy would it be to dress in brown, deliver boxes, and run obstacle courses past dogs, cats, kids, cars. Far easier than to wait for spring in New England, I think.
Have a good one.
