It's tempting to me, especially here of late, to let what I believe is a particularly good post just sit and gather merit. Kind of like wine, but without all the acres of vines, the barefoot virgins with grape-stained ankles and the snooty French sommiliers rattling their sabres at each other.
Okay, so it's nothing at all like wine, and there's no sabres to be rattled, but you get the drift.
There might be a grape-stained virgin, but I doubt it.
So what can I tell you? Things proceed apace. Plans are unfolding slowly, Belle is growing hair about as slowly as those ultra-late night infomercials that you're just too lazy to get up and turn off, and spring is trying to get here.
That's something that's been on my mind a lot here of late: the seasons. I heard today on the radio that upstate New York has something like 11 FEET of snow in places. Roof-high and above. Wow. All I've got is rain and temperatures high enough that I was sweating while sweeping my driveway off.
I've always had a sort of shock to see the tons of gladiolus in full and riotous bloom up in Eugene, Oregon when I go to pick up my daughter after summer vacation is over in August. I'm surprised, you see, because my own riotous gladioli are already growing sprouts, will be in full flower in a few weeks, and be dead months and months before the glads in Oregon even consider sending out a test-rootlet.
The birds are out, in their full panoply of colours. And Nature is as cruel as ever. That's why I only have a picture of a mated pair of Mourning, or Ring-Neck doves to show you. This happy couple was spending their day in a shower of bird seed being flung onto my front porch by whole gaggles of cardinals, house wrens, chicadees, and other unidentified bits of feather and fluff.
Roses are already appearing in the stores down here. Granted they're still the pot-and-bare-canes variety, or worse, the 1 1/2 grade jobbies that are three spindly canes and some bare roots wrapped in damp sawdust and paper, but still, roses. It's already that time. Nancy Dancehall, my blogging buddy up in Colorado is still shoveling snow, and dreading the return of more of the same. She won't even be laying her garden in for another two months or so, whereas I'm already laying out compost and planning the first crop of the year. I'm willing to bet that Scott (From Oregon) has even come out of his hibernation/drunken stupor yet.
It's funny how we can be such 21st century people--Bluetooth, iPods, cellular phones that shoot video, oil shortages, a thousand channels of shit on the HDTV and we still have a hard time seeing past our own fences. It still astounds me that there are people not too far from me (state-wise) who are still wearing their big coats, pouring water mixed with antifreeze over their windshields, and envisioning a far-off future that won't involve snow-plows and tire chains.
So it is to you, my snow-bound and frosty-toed friends that I raise a hot, steaming cup of Earl Grey and say "Hang in there, it's coming."
I should know, tomorrow's forecast high is in the mid 70's.