I’m so excited I could tinkle. This extra hour of daylight is better than a free flea-dunk with every deworming down at Paws and Claws. Better than that little bowl of au jus that comes with the 16-ounce prime rib. Better than the lollipop the mouth doctor gives you after yanking your teeth and stealing some of your organs.
Am I right? Springing forward in March is a gift from the sun, prettily wrapped with a neat little bow. Winter is still out there snarling somewhere, but we’ve hacked off one of its arms and shaved its fangs down to harmless nubs.
Am I right? Of course I’m right.
Winter dies in increments. For me, it starts in February when the boys of summer show up to play baseball in the deserts of Arizona and the swamps of Florida. Pitchers and catchers first and then the rest of the prima donnas show up to help slay the cold white dragon.
February gives way to March and that alone is like having a boil lanced or coughing up a hairball. February is a suspicious sore and March is the sweet sting of penicillin.
Then there’s daylight saving time and soon after, calendar spring. Calendar spring is a smooth-talking liar you meet in a bar, but it’s got charms. It means the planet is leaning toward the sun again and a million good things will result.
Spring makes ugly stuff appear beautiful. Mud? I could write a sonnet about it. Melting mounds of dog poo beneath the melting snow? Potholes? Rain? If I could fit those things into a box, I’d wrap them up and give them to you for your birthday. In fact …
But I don’t want to ruin the surprise.
Spring comes back like the proverbial cat. For six long months all we had to talk about was the weather. But now that winter has lost its big right hook and spring is dancing in, we’ll talk about the weather some more, because really, that’s all we have in common. And don’t try to be optimistic about it, either, because you’ll find a million people waiting to knock the season cheer right out of you. These people are flying monkeys out of “Oz,” flapping in to kill your poppy buzz.
“Some weather we’re having.”
“Yeah, but I busted a spring on one of those heaves out on Sabattus.”
“Nice to feel the sun again, though.”
“Yeah, but they’re saying it’s going to be a rainy summer and the rain will surely hurt the rhubarb.”
“Don’t have to fill up the damn oil tank every week any longer.”
“Yeah, but those loud damn motorcycles will be roaring up the block any day now.”
“I’m going to walk away because you’re bumming me out.”
“Yeah, but I just coughed on you so now you’re going to get a springtime flu.”
Whatever. I can deal with that guy and I have an extra hour to do it. I like to spend that extra hour sitting in a rocking chair, stroking a white cat and staring out at the cruddy snowbanks. If I had a long mustache (I’m thinking of getting one) I would twist the ends of it and go: “Nyah! Nyah, see?” Because I fancy I can hear the snowbanks screaming as they melt, like the Wicked Witch when somebody flung a bucket of beer at her.
And yet, March is hard on some people because it’s kind of a mutant zombie of a month. It’s neither winter nor spring. It’s ‘wing,’ perhaps. Or ‘sprinter.’ And those are two perfectly valid words, which just goes to prove my point, whatever it may be.
I guess the point is that there is hope. We’re closer to the end than we are to the middle. The bell tolls for the dreadful season. If you take a vacation — or just a really long nap — the filthy snowbanks will be gone when you get back and those weasels at The Weather Channel will be on suicide watch. Winter is down on the mat, one grimy glove hooked over the lowest rope, and gasping its last.
Nyah! Nyah, see?
Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can celebrate the imminence of spring by sending virtual mounds of dog poo to mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.
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