You Need Childhood in February

The Boston Herald

I can see the snowman again, the fake one on my front lawn, which was hidden by real snow until late last week. Not all of him, but I can see his middle and top. This is encouraging.

I can see the sidewalk across the street, too, most of it. And I heard a bird singing Wednesday. Well, maybe the bird was screaming, “Get me out of here!'' but it was chirping and it sounded like music to me.

I stepped in mud up to my ankles, which means the ground is soft. And I saw my neighbor Al in his driveway, hosing down his car.

And? And?

And, that's it. The plus side of the ledger.

The days are growing longer. And most nights are so clear you can see the stars despite all the electric lights. And, stepping out of the cold - into a foyer or car or house - is, well, nice.

But not as nice as stepping out of an air-conditioned car into a muggy night to wait in line at the Dairy Queen.

Here's the thing about February: I loved it when I was a kid in school. And I loved it all the years I had children in school because it is a festive month. First there's Groundhog Day, not a big deal but a marker; six weeks left of winter or not? It was something the teachers always talked about during spelling instead of checking on homework that day. 

Then there's Valentine's Day and all the little cards you had to poke out of cardboard and sign in neat cursive - ``Your friend,'' or ``Love,'' which would it be? Counting the cards when you got home, reading and rereading them. Did the skunk have hidden meaning? Was ``Little Stinker'' a term of endearment?

Then there was Ash Wednesday, which sometimes came before Valentine's Day, sometimes after. It wasn't an actual holiday, but it was an occasion. On Ash Wednesday we got our ashes and ate fishcakes and beans. 

Then there was my birthday - a cake and presents, and sometimes even a party. Who doesn't love this? And then there was the most wonderful part of February: George Washington's birthday and a whole week of no school, of sleeping late and hanging out with friends and sledding if it snowed and ice-skating if it didn't and going to movies and playing Monopoly.

I lived this and my children lived this and then Xena, the cousin from New York, came every February when she was young and she lived this, too. I miss her and I miss my own kids and I miss my own long-ago childhood. You need childhood in February. You need something that's new and tender and growing.

Once upon a time February was short and sweet and I loved it.

I don't love it anymore. For the time being anyway. And for the time being,  I'm glad it's short.