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Back to School

Tuesday marks the day when most students in Minnesota, from elementary to college age, return to school. Some schools have already started, of course, although the public districts have to receive permission to start before Labor Day. Private schools and colleges are not subject to this rule, and many students have already started their long walks and rides to school.

For our family this means that our daughter will be starting tenth grade, our son will be entering sixth grade, and I’ll be starting…twenty-first grade? I think? It gets a little murky after the bachelor’s degree. There were a few years when we had moved away from the state where I had been attending graduate school, and I still registered for dissertation credit in the hope of finishing my Ph.D. It didn’t happen, although I worked really hard on it until I realized that I’d rather stay home with my daughter than finish my dissertation and try to find a job as an adjunct or associate professor.

It feels strange to be starting school again, and it’s not just the fact that I am old enough to be a mother to most of the students I see on campus. (It will take me awhile to get over the mortifying incident of a young student trying to help what he thought was a confused old lady in the parking garage.)

There is a sense of déjà vu, of course. I’ve been through the back-to-school routine many times now, as a participant and a parent and even a professor. I also won’t deny that it’s exciting to step back into a college bookstore and see the piles of books for classes I’ll never take: biology, psychology, finance, Greek. There’s a sense of regret for that, of course. I really should have tried to find a degree program outside of liberal arts as an undergrad. I probably wouldn’t be starting a new graduate program at the age of (cough,cough) if I had majored in electrical engineering or accounting. (Who knows? Maybe I would have. I still can’t see myself as having been interested in those fields for a career.)

And of course it is exciting to pick up the books I need. Aside from the lovely anticipation of seeing the piles of fascinating books on the shelves, there is the question of whether I want to splurge on new books or be a careful steward of our resources and settle for used ones. Do I want to have to ignore other students’ highlighting and margin notes as I read through the assigned material? Wouldn’t it be lovely to be the first person to peek between the covers of a new text, the pages still slightly sticking to each other and the scent of fresh ink and paper rising as one flips through the leaves of the book? (I opted for used when available.)

But there is much that is different. Books are available in electronic format as well as paper. Each course and professor has a website. Registration—that formerly hours-long process of standing in line and moving from window to window—has been reduced to a few keystrokes (Heaven be praised!), as has been paying the bill. No more standing in line and writing out that check with a gulp and a hope that the paycheck or the loan or the scholarship money or the contribution from the parents has arrived in the bank account.

There are personal computers and software packages along with books and notebooks, tablet styluses (styli?) next to pens, calculators that can do everything but laundry. Actually, there are probably ways for college students to do laundry without actually schlepping their dirty clothes down into the dank, ill-lit room in the basement of the dorm. (The laundry room in one of my dorm halls always seemed to me to be the perfect setting for a horror movie. I don’t know if anything bad ever happened there, but it was really creepy.) When I was an undergrad, the biggest new technology was a CD player. Now, practically every student I see is using a cellphone or has one peeking out of a pocket, and these phones have more computing power than I could have imagined as an 18-year-old.

Back to school. This time, I hope, with a greater sense of what I want to do with the years remaining to me, and with a greater goal in mind than getting a job that pays well and that I can enjoy. Back to school with more obligations, as well: a husband and two children, a newly-redefined job with more hours and responsibilities. Yet back to school with the same hopes of exploring new ideas, making new friends, achieving new goals, finding meaning and purpose. I can hardly wait.

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Mom Voice

Warning: I’m posting about my religion.

Sometimes at work, I say that I need to use my “mom voice” to get people to return a phone call or to send me the documents I need. I work with a number of younger people, and it frequently works. I’m not sure if that firmness of tone reminds them of their mother or possibly a demanding teacher, but I often get a return phone call or email within a surprisingly short period of time.

I use my real “mom voice” at home with my children. Maybe you’ve used something similar: the “I’m-not-putting-up-with-any-more-monkey-business,” “do-your-homework,” “clean-your-room,” “don’t-use-that-tone-of-voice-with-me” voice.

But I was thinking tonight, that’s not my real “mom voice,” because that’s not being a mom or a mother. That’s really my drill sergeant voice, and it’s not one I enjoy using.

I was at Mass tonight, a Mass celebrating the end of my soon-to-be-middle-school son’s summer camp. The middle schoolers met five times this summer to do service projects and then participate in fun activities, ranging from bowling to visiting a water park. Tonight, they celebrated with a picnic, a rousing game of hide and seek through the school (imagine seventy 11-14 year olds running through a large school, and you can imagine that it’s rousing), and Mass.

Today happens to be the feast of the dedication of the Basilica of St. Mary Major in Rome, an event that happened in 345 AD. I won’t go into the background of the feast, but the priest spoke about it in his homily. I admit that I was preoccupied with other concerns during much of Mass, although I was truly trying to put these worries and preoccupations at the feet of Jesus, because they are much too big for me.

After Communion, I looked across the chapel and saw the statue of Mary holding the baby Jesus, and I suddenly imagined Mary’s “mom voice” to Jesus. Mary, the mother of God, must have spoken with such a loving voice to her child. Granted, she probably didn’t have to tell him to do his homework or clean his room, and I can’t imagine Jesus using “that tone” with Mary and Joseph, although Luke 2:49 suggests that he may have talked back at least once…

Reflecting on Mary’s “mom voice” made me think of how I really speak when I’m being a mother. How I encourage and celebrate, how I dry tears or tell jokes to try to lift their spirits, how I have to find patience—somehow—and not turn into a drill sergeant, how I am sometimes so choked up with emotion that I can hardly speak at all and only whisper “thank you” or “I love you.” Those are the “tones” that I think of most of all as my mom voice—my mother voice. The voice that says, “You mean more to me than I can say.” I think that must have been the voice Mary used with Jesus.

I hope my children hear the love in that voice. I hope I remember to use that voice more than the drill sergeant one. I hope they remember that voice rather than the drill sergeant voice. I hope that when they become parents they choose to speak more often with love rather than impatience.

St. Mary, Mother of God, thank you for your voice of love, reminding me to speak with love to my children.

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World Run Day

Today was World Run Day. I had planned to run. I registered online. I ordered my shirt, I downloaded and printed my bib, I planned my route. I was planning a 10K, my first ever.
I didn’t run. I came down with a bad cold. I almost never give in to a cold, but I had to yesterday and today. Sometimes, one has to admit defeat, even if the enemy is so tiny it can’t be seen. The virus won today, but I’m not giving up entirely. I still hope to run my 10K, although it may be a few more days before I manage to do it.
Since I didn’t run, and since I haven’t posted a blog entry in months, I thought I’d take advantage of starting to feel human again to write an entry.
I can’t believe it’s been so long since I last wrote. That was the beginning of spring, and here it is late fall. November. Winter is bearing down on us again—she said, with a sigh, looking at the weather forecast for 8 to 12 inches of snow over the next 48 hours.
I have been running since spring, whenever I can, as much as I can. I have been sidelined by sore feet, sore knees, a sore back and neck. (I am old.) But I have—by the grace of God—overcome these temporary setbacks, and gone back out onto the pavement, picking up where I left off or starting over, depending on how long I needed to recover.
I have run through the early leaves and tender shoots of grass, through the daffodils and tulips, through dandelions and iris and roses and daisies, into coneflowers and corn. I watched the leaves come in their pale green mist, grow large and strong in the summer sun, and turn scarlet and russet and gold, until at last they fell and blew away. I’ve watched the neighbors change their decorations on their homes from Easter to Independence Day to Halloween and now to Christmas. (One needs to plan ahead in Minnesota. It’s better to put Christmas decorations up in November than it is in December. But, please God, don’t turn the lights on yet.)
I’ve seen the neighbors put up signs for baby girls and boys; run past Easter and First Communion and graduation celebrations. Watched the set up and tear down for countless garage sales. I ran on the last day of school and then on the first day in September. I’ve watched the buses carry the children away each morning, and I have prayed for the safety of their precious cargo.
I usually run in the morning, so I’ve run from dark to dark: the dark of early spring mornings to the dark of fall. In between, I watched the sun rise earlier until it was bright out when I was running before six. Then, gradually, the mornings grew darker again. I’ve run in the darkness for the past several weeks.
I’ve seen other runners, walkers, bikers, and even a couple of skaters. Some have become familiar, and I’ve given them names. “The running man,” who runs hard. He has a heavy stride and runs up the hill by my house. It’s a steep hill, and I’ve never made it running all of the way to the top. We wave at each other, and I wonder how much his feet hurt. “The fast woman,” who seems to be at a tempo run all the time. I wonder how she does it. I’ve become faster than I was, but I’m still slow. “The Asian man,” is a walker. He waves his arms as he walks on his way to the park, where he does calisthenics. He didn’t used to acknowledge me when we would pass each other, but over the summer he gradually started to nod his head at me when I would say “good morning.” The same goes for “rude man,” who never acknowledged me until recently. He finally responded with a “good morning” of his own, maybe because he figured I wasn’t going to give up.
I’ve lost weight, which is wonderful. People have noticed and complimented me. I appreciate that, but more than that, I like how I feel: strong. A few weeks ago, I ran my second 5K. This one was official, and it was timed. I was a little nervous about running this time, but not nearly as much as the race I ran last November. I ended up running a personal best. I wasn’t the first or the fastest, by any means, but I completed the race with a decent time. I was proud of myself. And then…I ran it again. I had a break in between, and I didn’t intended to run it twice, but I did.
The second time around was supposed to be a walk: a charity walk for my son’s school. (The run was for charity, too.) But he wanted to ride his scooter, and when the walk started, off he went on his scooter. I couldn’t keep up with him walking, so I started to jog. I thought I would catch up with him soon, but I didn’t. I kept running, and I saw two things. The first was an inspirational sign, which I had missed the first time around. My friend Julie had put it up before the 5K race: “To my author, blogger and now runner friend Cathy.” I almost wept. I kept running. The second thing I saw was just a short distance on, when I ran past the senior citizen apartment home near the school. It was a cold, October morning, but three senior citizens had come out—one with a walker!—to cheer on the kids and the families on their walk. I decided at that point that I would keep running until I caught up with my son, and I would dedicate my second run to them.
I didn’t catch up with my son until I made it all the way back to the school. My feet hurt by then, and I was tired. But I was elated when I saw him again, and I was elated when I realized what I had done, something I never thought I could do. When the morning started, I wasn’t sure that I could run the 5K all the way through. I certainly didn’t think I could run it twice.
I know that a 5K or even a 10K isn’t a huge accomplishment, compared to what many people run. I doubt I’ll ever be a marathoner, although I have a secret hope that someday I can do a half marathon. I can say, though, that even though I didn’t run on World Run Day, I am a runner, and I’ll keep on running as long as I can.

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Signs of Spring

I think I can say (at last) that Spring has arrived near the Twin Cities. This being Minnesota, I won’t rule out the possibility of more snow. (In fact, it is in the forecast for Tuesday.) We do seem to have turned a corner, however.
For one thing, most of the snow has melted. When I last went snowshoeing, three weeks ago, there was more than 12 inches of snow on the ground. Now, most of it has melted, except where it has piled up along the edges of streets, driveways, and parking lots over the winter, or in places of deep shade. Even shady spots have had significant melting, with temperatures reaching the low 40s and a day of rain on Friday.
Rain! What a wonderful thing that was, to have rain instead of more snow.
I don’t usually mind snow so much, but I am tired of it and all that it entails: boots, gloves, hats, grit on the bottom of shoes and boots, snowpants for the kids. With the slightly warmer temperatures, followed by freezing at night, it also means ice. Since I’m the one who takes the dog out first thing in the morning (when it is still dark), I don’t like fumbling around in the dark when there is ice.
The dog has noticed the change in temperature, too. We have started our walks again, which means that she no longer wants to do her business in the yard. We’ve been to the neighborhood park a few times, and she thinks that we should be going there at least twice each day to do her business. She doesn’t seem to understand that there is a difference between walking to the park in the daylight, when I can see the ice, and heading there in the pitch black of 5:30 in the morning.
This morning, however, she let me sleep in until after 6:30, and by that time the sun was coming up. It was also relatively warm, at 20 degrees, so I agreed to walk her to the park. There was ice on the sidewalks, but I was able to avoid it and escape falling. Two years ago, an unseen patch of ice caused me to fall and sprain my ankle. I don’t want that to happen again.
Despite the cold temperature, it seemed like spring the moment I opened the door and stepped outside. The first sound I heard was of a red-winged blackbird singing its trilling song. I always think of that as one of the first signs of spring, and it was good to hear it. Other birds were flying about and calling, too. I love that we live near the Minnesota River Valley, an important flyway for migratory birds. I see and hear so many of them each spring.
It was nice to be able to walk again in the early morning (although it was chilly). With the deep snow and the cruel cold of this winter, I have hardly walked the dog at all. For her part, she has been unusually content to potty in the yard. In fact, it was so pleasant to feel the sun and listen to the birds, that the dog and I passed the park and continued on down the hill, dodging patches of ice. We came to a drainage pond, and while the dog sniffed an entire winter’s worth of smells, I watched nine mallard ducks circle about above the still-frozen surface of the pond. Last summer, I had watched two pairs of ducks raise their young on the pond. I couldn’t help wondering if these were the same two families. Just like last summer, they seemed to alternate between trying to drive each other off and flying peacefully together. One drake flew down to stand on the ice for several minutes before flying back up to rejoin the others in their circles.
The dog completed her morning duties, and we walked back up the hill, listening to the songbirds calling. I wish I could identify more of the calls. I enjoyed them and thought about how much it seemed like spring. It’s about time.
This afternoon, when temperatures reached into the 40s, I could no longer justify staying inside. The dog was not loth to take another walk, so we headed back down the hill. She pulled me right on past the park and headed back down to the drainage pond. I was surprised to see the surface completely melted by this time, and the ducks where paddling on the water, seemingly content. I wonder what they can find to eat so early in the season.
This afternoon, we saw many others drawn outside by the sunshine and comparatively warm temperatures. Several had dogs, too. We took a longer walk this time, and the dog was overjoyed to smell so many scents after a long winter of being inside. She didn’t hesitate to leave her own signs of spring. I’m sure the dogs who came after us will have left their own comments, too.
I was overjoyed to feel the sun. The breeze felt pleasant for a change, instead of frigid. It seemed like everyone I saw was smiling. We have needed spring.
Tomorrow the temperature is forecast to reach near 60 degrees. It won’t last, of course. Tuesday’s forecast is for 30s and snow showers, but there is hope. The ground feels slightly soft when I walk on it, so I know it is thawing. I hope that means that the tulips and daffodils will soon begin to sprout, and then the frogs will come out and begin to sing. Those will be sure signs of spring.
I love this season of rebirth, especially after a long, cold winter.
God is so good.

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Last snowshoeing trip of the season

Three weeks ago, I went snowshoeing at the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum. I started this entry then, but I haven’t been able to finish it. Today truly feels like spring (at last), and I decided I’d better take the time to complete this essay before it no longer has any relevancy.
March temperatures have finally arrived. With a few days above freezing, the snow is starting to degrade. I took advantage of a still-below-freezing morning Saturday to make what I hope is my final snowshoeing trip of the winter at the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum.
It was still chilly when I set out, only 20 degrees Fahrenheit, which is actually warmer than any of my other trips this year. I left my heavy gloves at home in favor of thin, knitted ones, since my hands usually grow so warm that I have to remove my heavy gloves. Initially, this didn’t seem like a good idea. The first part of the trail passes down a hill in deep shade, and my hands grew very cold. By the time I climbed the first high hill, however, I was warming up. I followed my typical route of up the hills, skirting the prairie, and circling down to head to the wildflower garden and arbor vitae collection.
I had thought to see more people on a Saturday morning, when temperatures were forecast for the 20s (instead of the teens), but I saw only one other woman snowshoeing for the first mile or so. I had intended to head for the prairie loop first, but when I saw she was headed that way, I chose the other direction to allow each of us our solitude. I actually saw more people walking on the Three-Mile Drive than I saw snowshoeing.
It was a beautiful morning. The sun is so much higher in the sky now, and the sky is a much brighter blue. Were it not for the deep snow, it might feel and look more like spring. The sun is working on the snow. Parts of the trail were icy, where the snow had melted and frozen again.
The snow is still very deep, however, and as the sun and warmer temperatures work on it, it is becoming less solid in spots. I was glad for my poles, for some parts of the trail were slippery and unstable. I could see, too, where people had walked on the snowshoe trail—prints from boots and yak trax were clearly visible—and it was easy to tell where they stepped off the trail. Their prints sank deeply into the snow: more than 12 inches. There is still plenty of snow on the ground.
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The birds and squirrels seemed glad of the warmer temperatures. I saw and heard more birds on this trip than I have on any of my others. A pair of downy woodpeckers, in particular, was far more intent on each other than on me. I came upon them flying around a grove of trees, and despite the crunch of my snowshoes on the late winter snow, they did not seem to notice me—or at least they hardly cared. One of them flew so close to me that I could hear the thrumming sound of its wingbeats. It landed on a branch only a few feet from me, watching the other bird, and only when I moved my arm a little to rest my pole, did it seem to notice me. The other woodpecker fluttered to a nearby branch, and without another look at me, the first one flew after it.
I saw evidence of a raptor, as well. I took a picture of what looks like squirrel fur, with a few drops of blood nearby, left smack in the middle of the trail. There were no other tracks around, so I doubt it was a fox that was the attacker. There also were no entrails, so either the raptor caught only the tail, and the squirrel escaped, or it carried it away to eat it elsewhere. Only a few feet farther down the trail, a fat squirrel was scampering between the trees. I couldn’t see its tail well enough to see if it was missing a tuft of fur.
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I saw fewer deer tracks this time. Perhaps the deer have moved off elsewhere. It must have been a hard winter for them, what with the deep snow and cold temperatures. I wonder about the other birds and beasts that winter in the area. How hard was it on them?
It was a lovely day to be out, with the sun shining so brightly and the air crisp and fresh. I traveled 3 miles and found that endorphin rush again. To give you an idea of how many hills I climbed, my Fitbit One recorded that I climbed the equivalent of 50 flights of stairs. I did not have to worry about my hands or any part of me being cold for very long.
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I will miss my snowshoeing when spring finally comes, but I will be glad when the snow melts and I can walk or run the Arboretum trails, my eyes refreshed with the green of growing things after this long winter of white and black.

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Snowshoeing with my Son

I went snowshoeing again yesterday, and it will probably be the last time this winter. I have enjoyed my outings, but I really hope this thaw continues. I can wait until next December for more cold and snow. I haven’t finished writing an entry about yesterday’s trip, but I thought I’d post this one that I started a few weeks ago.
Of all my trips to the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum to snowshoe this winter, I only had company for one. My family declined to come with me, and I didn’t plan far enough in advance for friends to accompany me. I had a wonderful time on each visit, enjoying the scenery and the time outside, but some company would have been pleasant, too.
It has been such a cold winter, that it has been difficult to want to spend time outside. When the temperature has warmed into the teens above zero, I have jumped at the chance to be outside whenever possible. Work and family obligations don’t always permit this, and it also simply hasn’t warmed up that much that often this winter. I regret my December post about being due for a hard winter. God laughed at that one.
The forecast for today called for another teens above zero afternoon, so I made an effort to complete my chores and commitments as early as possible. When I announced to my husband that I wanted to go to the Arboretum again, he asked if I was intending to take our son. (Daughter was at a birthday party.) I said no, since son had resolutely declined all previous invitations, but after feeling the mother-guilt, I asked son to join me.
To my great surprise, he said yes. The reason for this became clear when he asked, “Can we go to Target after?” Target, of course, is the town’s source of all things toy and electronic. “Maybe,” I bargained. “There’s to be no whining, and no telling me you’re finished and ready to go home when we’ve barely started.” He agreed to these conditions, put down his electronics, and got ready to go. I was astonished but pleased, willing to reward him for accompanying me and being willing to try snowshoeing again.
We headed out, and he was in good spirits. The parking lot was full when we arrived, and there were other people renting snowshoes. I thought the trails might be crowded, but once we got on the trail, we quickly found ourselves alone in the snow-covered hills. There are a few options for starting out on the trail. I usually head downhill at first. To my surprise, Matthew found this so easy that he started to jog. I followed, and it felt good. We didn’t run for long. Breathless and laughing, we slowed to a walk, and I pointed out some squirrel tracks in the snow. After skirting a pond, the trail comes to a large hill. This is a challenging climb in snowshoes without poles, so I lent my poles to my son. He appreciated that, but I asked him to be careful with the poles so that he didn’t poke my eye out.
“Because then I wouldn’t be able to drive home and we’d be stuck,” I said.
Having recently studied the feast of St. Lucy in school, he had a ready comeback: “Maybe you’ll be like St. Lucy and still be able to see after I poke them out.”
“Let’s not try it,” I cautioned. He looked over his shoulder and grinned at me. I was glad to see him enjoying himself.
After the big hill, the trail leveled out and then we headed up another, more gradual hill. It’s a lot of climbing within a few minutes, and I wasn’t too surprised when he said he wanted to stop and head back. I said we had only been out for ten minutes, and we needed to go farther: a least a mile. He agreed.
We crested the hill and started down, circling around a section of prairie to a large oak. He wanted to rest on the snow-covered bench beneath it, but I encouraged him to keep going. We continued down the hill to the 3-Mile Drive that winds through the Arboretum. In the winter, it is closed to motor traffic, but it is plowed. We stomped across, our snowshoes clattering on the pavement, and I climbed the snow bank back onto the trail. He decided to cross the road a little farther away and try to snowshoe off the trail. Mistake.
After all of our snow this winter, it is very deep, and even with snowshoes, one sinks into it. He fell and couldn’t get the poles underneath him to help himself up. It looked like he was swimming in the snow, and I couldn’t help laughing. I thought he might get frustrated, but he seemed to find it as funny as I did. I took out my phone and snapped a picture.

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Within minutes, he was up again and came back to the trail. Now we were near the wildlife garden: my favorite section of the Arboretum. We saw deer tracks crossing the trail and I pointed them out. He asked if we would see the deer. I said that I always see lots of tracks in the arbor vitae section, but I’ve never seen any deer.
“Snowshoeing isn’t very quiet,” I said. “They have plenty of time to run away when they hear us coming.”
After crossing a ravine on a snow-covered bridge, we worked our way to the wildflower garden. I pointed out the snow stained by what I think are red elderberries and marked by the tracks of many animals. The berries are bright red against the snow, and it is obvious that many birds and animals have been eating them. We traveled farther along the trail and came to another berry bush, along with a bird feeder. The animals have been feeding well here, which is something of a relief. It’s been such a hard winter that I am glad to know that at least some of them are finding food.
We walked farther into the garden, entering the arbor vitae collection. (Just as an aside, I really don’t care for arbor vitae in general, but the Arboretum has an impressive collection. They are well maintained and look beautiful in the snow.) The deer obviously like this part of the Arb. We could see many tracks and places where they have bedded down to sleep.
We also came across a large pile of deer scat in the trail. I told son what it was. “Really?” he asked, bending down to take a closer look, with all of the fascination of a nine-year-old boy or a wildlife biologist. “It looks like berries.”
“Don’t eat those berries,” I warned.
He studied the scat some more. “Why does it look like that?” he asked.
I hadn’t really thought about it before, so I shrugged. “It just comes out like that,” I offered, “like with rabbits.” He is familiar with that form of scat.
“Maybe they eat the same things?” he asked.
“Well, yes, I suppose so.”
He took another look at the pile of poop balls. “If I had a deer, I could use it as a bb gun,” he concluded, and he started to walk again.
I haven’t laughed so much in a long time.
I didn’t walk as far or as fast with my son as I have when I’ve trekked by myself at the Arb. I didn’t sweat through four layers of clothes and (according to my FitBit), climb the equivalent of 50 flights of stairs. But I had a great time with my son, and he had a good time, too.
When we finished, I asked him if he had enjoyed himself, and he said yes. “So, if I were to buy you some snowshoes, you’d come back with me and use them?” I asked.
“Sure,” he replied. “That would be fun.”
Yes, it would.

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And then he had a cookie and hot cocoa at the café, and asked me if I was ready to go to Target, where he wanted to look at toys, fortunately one that was not electronic.

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Uncle

I knew I might have been asking for it when I told winter to “bring it” back in early December. Well, ha-ha, very funny, ok, you win: Uncle.
There. I said it. I don’t give up and I don’t give in, but I’ve had enough of winter.
Yes, the snow is pretty. Yes, the cold is supposed to be killing the emerald ash borers and pine beetles and wood ticks. Yes, I’ve had several great days of snowshoeing. Yes, I’ve enjoyed plenty of stay-at-home days with my family: we’ve had more days off from school than I can ever remember when I was a kid.
But enough is enough. It’s February 26 and the forecast low for tonight is for -18 degrees Fahrenheit, with wind chills of -25 to -35. Our average high temperature is 33 degrees above zero Fahrenheit. Still not very warm, but it sounds wonderful right now.
We are presently tied for tenth place in the record of winters with the most days with below zero temperatures. This is the coldest winter we’ve experienced since 1979. (I remember that one, by the way. It was not fun.) We are ahead of average for snow and well below average for temperatures.
I’ve had enough. I give in. Despite global warming (Yes, I do believe in it, but I don’t appreciate any comments stating that you do not; get your own blog.), it is clear that we can still have serious winters. It seems obvious that record high temperatures elsewhere in the northern hemisphere are related to our record lows, while record drought in the west can be related to unusually high snow amounts to the east. There is still cold air in the north at this time of the year, and it has to go somewhere. Unfortunately, it’s our year for it to come here.
Saturday is the first of March, the beginning of meteorological spring. The forecast high for the day is 0 degrees Fahrenheit. Whimper. Sigh.
I’ve had enough.
Uncle.