Our Winter of Discontent

The Boston Herald

My daughter answers the phone, 'Hello? This is the winter of our discontent.’ 'It's from the movie 'Reality Bites,'' she explains. I remember it as an old John Steinbeck novel.

The point is the same. This is the winter of our discontent.  Fifteen snowstorms, nearly 90 inches of the rotten stuff; frigid cold, burst pipes, leaky roofs, huge heating bills, snow days, one-hour delay days, two-hour delay days, traffic, ice, trains that run late, buses that don't run at all, cancellations, dead batteries, plowed-in driveways, unplowed streets, potholes, no sidewalks, no place to walk, no place to go.

Enough, already. It's time to bring on spring 

People say it's almost here. I keep reading all these upbeat stories about the Flower Show opening this weekend and spring being right around the corner. Near the foundation of my mother-in-law's house is so-called proof that spring can't be far away her snowdrops and hyacinth are halfway to bloom. But these are just some devious tricks of March. March is a sly magician, the David Copperfield of months. What you see is never what you get. Consider the old saying, 'March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.' March, a lamb? March is more mad dog than meek sheep. Consider also the myth that because the days are growing longer they're getting better. This is nonsense. Longer March days don't bring anything positive. They just bring longer daylight hours of cold and snow.

Ah, but we're hearty New Englanders. We will survive all this. Or so I'm told by people packing for Hawaii and the Caribbean.

My friend Anne actually likes March. But my friend Anne likes everything. She is grace under fire. She is optimism personified.

Anne, not surprisingly, rushes to March's defense. 'How can you say you don't like March? It's sunny. It's blue sky. It's beautiful. The snow will be melted in a second. I hear birds in my back yard.’

I hear only one bird in mine. It sounds suicidal. I've been listening to it for a week now. It's ready to throw itself off the roof. I can tell. I can relate.

I imagine the poor bird got lost on its flight from Florida. It probably meant to go to New Orleans to visit a friend and got on the wrong track. I've done this. I know what it's like to be looking for a sign that says, 'Welcome to Maine' and run into one that says, 'Welcome to Pennsylvania. 

I've been feeding the bird and counseling it, too, telling it to hang in there, that things will get better. But the bird looks at me the way I look at my mother-in-law's snowdrops and hyacinth. Faith is believing without seeing. The bird and I see but we still don't believe.

'Come on,' Anne insists. 'You're exaggerating. Don't you love sitting by the fire and reading a book? Don't you love coming in from outdoors and making cocoa? Don't you see beauty in the bare trees?'

The trees are beautiful. I love cocoa. Reading by the fire is great.

But toasting marshmallows by a summer fire is better. And sipping lemonade is sweeter.

I'd rather it be May than March.

Spring is on its way. Sure. Do me a favor? Wake me when it arrives.