Several hundred feet of snow fell on Minneapolis Monday night, and continued into Tuesday, burying bus stops, rolled and flung Penny Saver circulars that never hit their mark, and the shorter among us.
To judge from the amount of conversation it generated, you’d think it had never happened before.
And that, of course, is the beauty of a four-seasoned region. Every winter, we forget the rash of summer, its insect-humming, thigh-chafing ways. And every summer, we forget winter, with its snow-drifting, lethal-icicle dropping conditions.
And for this, we are grateful.
Without the March snow, after all, we would find ourselves nonchalantly sliding into spring, shedding woolen underthings and hats like so many two-legged caterpillars. The bare, sandy sidewalks would continue to reveal themselves without fanfare, though eager for the kiss of bare feet. Dinners and/or suppers would move from hearty, gravy-laden affairs to sliced tomatoes and various items on a charcoal grill without reference.
We can’t have that, now, can we?
No, no, no. Like the brisk, musty clarity of fall after the exhaustive talcum-ing of summer, we here in the Great State of Minnesota believe in the righteous, last-ditch burst of winter prior to the warm-warmer-warmest breezes of spring, upon which we will spin, drunk with budding leaves and returning birdies, out of our wool and cashmere layers and into the cotton layers of summer.
It is a heady time.
Until the arrival of spring, of course, we remain buttoned and steadfast, buckets of sand at the ready, our weathered foreheads pressed into the wind as we shovel, as our forefathers did before us, a pot of Thai food on the stove, DVDs at the ready, the big box of Moscato in the fridge.
One rolls with the times, of course.
And the times?
From winter into spring, they are a’changin’.
* March is also a time for college basketball and unfettered gambling, especially, for reasons unknown to us, amongst the kitties. For tales of gambling and loss:
Well, At Least She’s Off the Nip: Wherein we are grateful that betting on college basketball is not yet a rehab kind of issue for Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers.
This is Where Dolly’s Allowance Goes: The cat reveals her system.
And Then There Were Thirteen: Wherein the kitty sorrowfully realizes that she’s bet more money than she can afford to lose, causing her to stub out her cigarettes and take to smoking them in three- and four- drag increments.