Most would look twice at me for saying this, but this winter has been somewhat of a disappointment. Despite bouts of painful cold, the snow didn't really show its face. There was a short ice storm that excited me at first, but when I saw its toll on the landscape and the stressed trees, still parched and weakened from summer drought, bowing under the weight of a heavy ice coat, I changed my mind. Despite the forest being transformed into a vast bluish expanse of sparkling jewels, it just wasn't worth it. It was beautiful, though. And the cold temperatures were never sustained for long enough to really qualify as "winter." At least that's what the plants outside, already showing signs of a spring awakening, seem to think. To most of the world, the return of spring is a time to celebrate, for it means shorts, flip flops, fishing by the river, and sunshine on their shoulders. For me, it means 7 long months until the return of fall, and the next chance at another winter wonderland. Fireplaces, peppermint, hot chocolate, late nights on the couch with a movie while icy drops fall outside, and the like: these all make me feel at home. Sure, spring is a supposed "renewal," and I do like the flowers it brings, but I'd still rather sled down a hill than mow the lawn.
