Seasonal blahs or blues or ...?

Several years ago, the bulletin board at a local coffee shop had a note that seems to fit about this time every year. Those who love Winter and ice fishing and such like undoubtedly have a different perspective, but every year, about the time the Christmas tree comes down, we start counting the days until Spring. Here's a photo of (part of) the note in question:

Winter Blues or January Blahs?

Photo by J. Harrington

We suspect that it's a case of the "Winter Blues" that we suffer from. This being Minnesota, Spring doesn't actually begin with either the meteorological (March 1) or the astronomical (March 19) start dates. We may still be getting "unseasonable" snowfalls well into April (see below).

early April 2018

Photo by J. Harrington

The Christmas tree came down this morning. These days it's a relatively simple affair, since we have been cutting "Charlie Brown" pine trees from along the driveway and the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law just celebrated their second Christmas with their own tree in their own house. It's taking awhile to sink in, but when I was younger it never occurred to me I'd ever live someplace where I could cut my own Christmas tree in my own yard. Anyhow, it took just a morning to deconstruct the tree and the other decorations. That's considerably less time than needed to take down the collection shown below, from a few years ago, most of which now hangs on the tree of the younger generation.

taking down the Christmas tree

Photo by J. Harrington

The next couple or three months will focus on counting the days until Spring; organizing stacks of books and magazines that have gotten out of hand; organizing paperwork for tax filing; baking artisan sourdough bread; and, rewarding accomplishments in the first three categories by playing with and organizing fly-fishing stuff (that's a technical term).

We hope your Winter has a minimum of blahs and blues and a maximum of warmth and joy.

Winter: My Secret

Christina Rossetti - 1830-1894

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I;
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

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