It’s February 17. This time last year, we were digging out from a bountiful (by our standards; maybe 6 inches) snow storm, with a homemade sock monkey to show for my day spent on the couch while the world turned white outside.
A year later, here I am on our patio sipping a banana-pineapple-strawberry smoothie and debating whether or not I really need to be wearing my In-n-Out hoodie (I’d wear one from Burgerville but, oh right, they misguidedly don’t do swag). Meanwhile, Rob is out golfing for the first time since last summer.
I drove around town today with my sunroof open and my car’s automatic climate control spewing cooled air through the vents. I saw lots of cars with their windows down and a few convertibles going topless far earlier than should be legal.
Our crocus flowers are always the first sign of imminent spring, usually popping up in mid March. This year, they are already long popped and munched by the deer. Our daffodils are already up and the plum trees on our driveway are adding daily blossoms by the dozens. This is all at least one month ahead of schedule. I have already purchased my annual pair of garden gloves and I am eyeing our BBQ in hopes of convincing Rob to grill me dinner tonight. I usually don’t get such notions until well into April.
I should still be wearing my fleece-lined shirts and my heavy coat. My walks should still involve earmuffs. Instead, we are all partying here like it’s May 19…and none of us is breathing a word of it. Because this:
I have several very good friends in the Boston area. The pictures they have been posting on Facebook are ridiculous. They are getting pounded by snow storm after snow storm while we are breaking records for heat and number of days without rain. It’s so bad (good?), I actually shaved my legs the other day in anticipation of maybe wearing… shorts!?
Normally, I would own the unseasonably nice weather and share photos of it with friends around the country. But this year, well, that just seems like unsportsmanlike conduct. Instead, I am quietly letting the weather sharing go one direction and yowza, the things I am learning!
For instance, my Boston friends have introduced me to the profession called “Roof Shoveler.” This is a person you hire to shovel snow off your roof. You do this because you fear a phenomenon called an “ice dam.” This is what happens when snow freezes in your gutters and builds a little dam that prevents any melted snow from leaving your roof. If you aren’t careful, the water eventually makes a break for it via your living room ceiling.
|A roof freshly shoveled. Thanks for the pic, Marsha!|
|This is just silly.|
When they aren’t trying to save their houses, these snow-weary friends are busy moving snow out of the way to make room for more. They speak of spending hours and hours digging out parking spaces for their cars. This confuses me. They are DRIVING in the insanity of feet and yards and practically miles of snow?!? Two inches of flakes here and we all take the day off, hunker down, break out the emergency supplies, and wonder how we will ever survive.
But no, these New England snow veterans are hearty people. And probably much like rain here, they know if they waited until it stopped snowing to go anywhere, they would be housebound until July 5th. So they must drive. And therefore they must provide parking. And protect it.
Yes, another thing I have recently learned is that once you spend 4 hours creating a little asphalt haven for your car, there exists the possibility of some lazybutt shmoe coming along and stealing it. So, naturally, you stake your claim. Using chairs. Naturally. Why chairs, I have no idea. But apparently lawn chairs, folding chairs, rocking chairs, dining room chairs, even recliners are all suitably universal signs of “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, BUDDY.”
And so as the sun warmly sets on my shmancy zero-gravity lawn chair on my little cement haven on our tulip-budded patio, I am blissfully ignoring the long-range weather models that are calling for cold air to arrive towards the beginning of March. They speak of an idea of “False Spring” defined as “a period in February around here when we think winter is done and spring is here. Often it’s followed by a return to cold and rainy weather soon after.” So yet another reason to keep our current spring paradise a secret. Shhhh.