Chill of `The Februaries' goes on and on and on and on

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

My daughter calls these days "The Februaries," an apt word for the dead-of-winter mood that is heavy, like snow; that presses hard on hearts, that is like ice on a roof, an unnecessary burden.

The Februaries - a time of restlessness and melancholy and longing; a month to be to endured, not enjoyed. Unless you ski, or skate. Unless you vacation in Colorado, or New Hampshire, or Vermont. (It's beautiful up here, a friend says, calling from a ski lodge. It's been snowing for 24 hours.) Or unless you escape to somewhere warm, where February isn't. ("You should come to Florida, Mom," my son says.)

But I don't want Florida. I want spring to come here. The 16-year-old and I dream of chasing February out of the house, of opening all the windows and doors, and turning off the heat and walking barefoot again.

But February is everywhere. Inside. Outside. In the next town. In the next state.

I've tried liking it. I swore last summer I would savor the seasons, all of them, and stop wishing the days away. I would take long walks in the brisk cold. I would appreciate the various shades of gray. I would find beauty in the ghosts of trees, silhouetted against a pearl-gray sky.

And I did. For a while. But February is like the movie "Groundhog Day." The same 24 hours are repeated again and again. Ice. Cold. Storm warnings.

And more of the same.

Other people must be tired, too, of sweaters and boots and gloves and dry skin and ice on the windshields and raw unyielding ground and evenings that are longer than days.

Other people must be sick of the snow and the endless cancellations that come because of it. The weather forces us to retreat, hunker down, stay home. Pull the shades. Light the fire.

And the fire is nice. Warming. Relaxing, the intermission a storm brings, a welcome break from routine - in November, December, even January.

But by February, this insulation is more like isolation. Instead of feeling protected from the outside world by thick walls and a warm fire, I feel trapped. Enough already. Change the station. Turn up the sound. Open a window and let in a breeze.

I crave birdsong in the morning, and sunshine like a spotlight, awakening me. I miss dogs howling and kids shouting and cars with their radios too loud streaking by. I ache for bright clothes and soft rain and unfrozen earth and new life every day, born from the ground.

The days are getting longer, I know, and spring is coming. But not fast enough.

I stick my nose in plants at the grocery store in search of the scent of spring. But I can't find it. I buy freesia and daffodils and polish a silver vase to hold them and place them in the kitchen. But the kitchen still smells like gas heat and indoor dust. I buy Coppertone and rub it on my arms and legs and pretend I am breathing summer. But then I look out the window and winter stares me down.

In front of my mother-in-law's house, there is hope: a dozen daffodils have burst from the ground and stand about four inches tall, green and shapely and showy. They grow close to the foundation, protected from the cold, and drenched by sunlight, whenever it appears.

My daffodils are unprotected. They grow close to the street, and remain hidden under frozen ground. Are they sleeping contentedly? I don't think so. I think they are aching to be born.

That's how I feel. Suspended. On hold. On the other side of August. On the dark side of the moon. Waiting for sunshine. Waiting for spring.