I’m trying to regard the powdering of snow that is covering the tentative greening of my yard with a sense of wonder, as though it is the first snow I’ve seen in what seems like a very long time, and not what it is – yet another accumulation in an endless parade of snowy days and knee-deep drifts in a winter that seems like it will never really end. The second day of spring, and it is snows.
A few days ago, we had the first 60 degree days of the season, and it was amazing to see how the neighborhood woke up. So many kids and people walking dogs! Parents with strollers and crowds at the park. All winter I was convinced we were living in a ghost town; the only evidence of human habitation was the appearance (and disappearance, in January) of Christmas lights, and shoveled driveways. So the 60 degree days were a tease. Having living in this corner of the world for all of the parts of my life that have counted, I know that a Midwestern spring is fickle thing indeed, but still. I had a tentative, skeptical hope that the snow was behind us for another season.
C’est la vie. So, it’s snowing. But I’ve got barbecue chicken in the crockpot, the house is clean and cozy, and a loaf of bread is baking in the oven. There are few things more miraculous than the toasty smell of baking bread – flour, a bit of yeast, a touch of sugar and salt, and water – and the sum certainly turns out greater than that parts. And anyways, I’m always saying – if it’s going to be cold, it may as well snow. Prettier that way.