Winter's arrived! It can't be too soon gone!

Ben Franklin is reported to have said that "Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days." We have a similar opinion of Winter. My mother, and her mother before her, used to say "May all bad luck go with it!" That's pretty much how we feel about the weather we're forecast to get this coming week. Tonight may bring 6 or 8 inches of snow, followed by three days with low temperatures around minus 20℉. Our memory being what it is, there's no assurance we'll find warmer weather in the months ahead more enjoyable as compensation for the pain and perturbation that the snow and bitter, bitter cold are likely to bring this week. We haven't figured out yet if it would be adding insult to injury to use this week to stay in and start to get really organized for tax filing. Sigh!

February snow storm

Photo by J. Harrington

At least next Saturday is groundhog day! We'll be done with January and looking for insights into how much Winter lies ahead. Punxsutawney Phil's been accurate only about 39% of the time so don't try to take his shadow to the bank, although batting .390 would definitely keep him in the big leagues. Frankly, we don't care how accurate Phil might be nearly as much as we want this Winter weather to end. It's been mostly cold, cloudy, uncomfortable and boring so far.

February open water

Photo by J. Harrington

Maybe next month will be like February of two years ago, which brought open water and waterfowl to the nearby marshes. Many February days in Minnesota also bring impressive snowfalls. The only way we know of to discover what February will bring this year is to stick around, watch, and pay attention. We can be as sure that February will bring Valentine's Day as we are that March, or April, will bring at least some mud. After that we get 37 minutes worth of Spring before the temperatures leap into the 80's, something that seems like a fantasy at the moment.

February

By Margaret Atwood

Winter. Time to eat fat

and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,

a black fur sausage with yellow

Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries

to get onto my head. It’s his

way of telling whether or not I’m dead.

If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am

He’ll think of something. He settles

on my chest, breathing his breath

of burped-up meat and musty sofas,

purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,

not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,

declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,

which are what will finish us off

in the long run. Some cat owners around here

should snip a few testicles. If we wise

hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,

or eat our young, like sharks.

But it’s love that does us in. Over and over

again, He shoots, he scores!and famine

crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing

eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits

thirty below, and pollution pours

out of our chimneys to keep us warm.

February, month of despair,

with a skewered heart in the centre.

I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries

with a splash of vinegar.

Cat, enough of your greedy whining

and your small pink bumhole.

Off my face! You’re the life principle,

more or less, so get going

on a little optimism around here.

Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

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