Outside, the ground is hidden under 3 feet of snow, but my soul knows in the magical way souls know such things that spring will be here in a few short weeks.
It’s not here yet, not quite, though the air is warmer, the rink at the park and the Rideau canal have both closed to skaters, and where the city’s great beast of a snowblower cut all the snowbanks away from the edges of the roads, there is a slowly eroding vertical wall of striated snow in shades of gray and dripping with icicles.
The snow has gone lacy in places, too, in the way it does as the snow starts to melt, then freezes again, then melts out from underneath, leaving shelves of the most delicate and beautiful ice lace in the strangest of places. It is beautiful and ugly all at once, this not-yet-spring season of ours.
The ugly comes from all the salt and sand and grossly grey sludge of the entire winter making itself seen as the lovely pure white topping melts away. The roads are a dingy grey edged in shades of yuck and spotted here and there with slick puddles of water gone hard in whatever lumps and bumps were in it as night fell.
Walking is treacherous, as you must truly watch your step lest you turn an ankle or outright fall. But it is lovely, too. Mittens are thinner, hats are stylishly warm instead of usefully warm, and my scarf is tied loosely around my neck instead of snugly under my chin or — as on the coldest days — covering most of my face.
The kids no longer walk home from school in the setting sun, and our morning walk is a pleasant affair with the sun already several hours old and the air not quite so chill. Days are longer. Slightly warmer.
Spring is coming.
Inside the house, spring cleaning is in full swing. The dust and stuffiness of a closed up house is starting to ease as windows and doors get left open for a few minutes here and there, and a great scrub is in progress from top to bottom and bottom to top, 15 minutes at a time.
Spring messing up is also in full swing — otherwise known as planting the greenhouses.
Did you notice that extra ‘s’?
It’s true. The Man We Call Dad loves me that much. We don’t have a little seed starting greenhouse for the garden this year. We have two.
Which means twice the soil on the kitchen floor, twice the seeds scattered on the counter, and twice the number of accidental spills while watering, I am sure.
I am so excited!
Do you think The Man We Call Dad will be just as excited as I am when he realizes I’m ordering twice the usual amount of garden soil and intend to
make him ask him to help me expand the garden beds again?
That’s what I thought. Good thing I’ve got
slaves kids who are forced so happy to help me.