Bright side won't arrive until March marches on
/The Boston Herald
I am trying to look at the bright side of things. Count my blessings. Give thanks for the moment and not wish the moment away. The bright side: This isn't the Yukon. The ice on the front walk has finally melted, making both the mailman and me happy. The days are getting longer, never mind that they're cold and gray and cheerless. And we are on the right side of the year. This is not, thank God, November.
Today is March 4, which brings to mind that age-old question I think I once discovered at the bottom of a bubble gum wrapper: "What date is also a command?" Answer: "March fourth." And I hope it does - straight out of here. The answer always made me smile.
But nothing about this March makes me smile. I look out at my back yard, buried under a thick layer of gray, ugly ice, and I don't know how the dog walks on it. I look at all the trees surrounding the ice, maple and dogwood, gray as driftwood, now, bare, spindly, like transplants from some evil forest and I wonder how, and if, they will ever bloom.
The steps leading up to the patio are gray, the patio itself, though blue flagstone, looks gray and even the sky, on most days some shade of blue, is this day a dome of gray.
The bright side. No sun casting its light on the world means no sun shining through dirty windows. No brilliant spotlight on winter-worn floors. No seeing the dog hair all over the place because a.) It's too cold for the dog to shed and b.) Even if the dog did shed, without the sun shining, who would notice? And no warmth means a few more weeks of getting to wear bulky sweaters and long pants while thinking about getting in shape. No lovely, warm, welcoming outdoors means there's time still to enjoy the cozy (read: cell-like) indoors.
There's no grass to cut in March, no flowers to plant, no weeds to pull, no lawn furniture to clean. No flies, no mosquitoes, no ticks on the dog, no ants on the counter. No reason in the world to put on a bathing suit. This should be nirvana.
But it's not. It's ugly, horrible, endless March and if Dante had been born here in New England, he would have included this time between winter and spring in his circles of hell.
Of course, bad hair can still be hidden under a hat. Hairy legs can be hidden under pants. Everyone else has a disgustingly dirty car, too.
More of the bright side: St. Patrick's Day. Green beer is at least colorful. The Flower Show. It's crowded and pricey and a bit like seeing animals at a zoo, all the flowers and plants groomed and confined, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The First Day of Spring. (This deserves to be capitalized). This is the real bright side. It is coming. Spring has never NOTcome.
Though the ground is hard and the tress look lifeless, though everything seems as dead as rock, under the ground and inside the trees, something IS going on. March will end. Wishing it, I suppose, is wishing your life away. Or maybe it's just anticipating.
The snow will turn to rain and the rain will soften the ground and the ground will smell of new life as buds appear on limbs that look dead, and the grass will grow, and the birds will return.
"A flippant fly upon the pane; A spider at his trade again," Emily Dickinson wrote about spring. I am anticipating all this, counting the moments for soft air, green grass, the windows open, spiders spinning, children playing, birds chirping, mothers pushing baby carriages, joggers (Where have they all gone?) and my most certain sign of spring: My neighbor Al across the street, raking his lawn, sweeping his driveway and painting his garage.
