A time full of promise

Six years ago today, the neighborhood looked like the picture below. Spring's beachhead was well established. This year Spring seems to be advancing a week or two behind 2016's timetable. The polar vortex of a couple of weeks ago probably set us back that much. Since we've entered our "senior years," we've noticed that the time between the Ides of March (that's tomorrow) and bud burst feels much longer than the two weeks before Christmas did in our younger days.

open water, mid-March 2016

Photo by J. Harrington

Southern Minnesota may get 6 ± inches of snow tonight and tomorrow. So far, at least, the forecasts have the snow line ceasing South of us. We hope the forecast is correct as far as our area is concerned, although the extended forecast of above normal temperatures through  the end of this month sounds good and should promptly attend to any flakey incursion. Then, again, the normal overnight low doesn't get above freezing until early April in these latitudes.

We still recall our mother warning us that we were spending our youth "wishing our life away." That's an easy habit for the young to develop and support. Some of us oldsters are now learning to enjoy each moment of each day for whatever pleasures we can find. No time and no place has offered better opportunities for learning that lesson than Spring in the North Country, a time when we look toward Mother Nature and exclaim "Promises, promises!"

The Seasons Moralized

Philip Freneau - 1752-1832

They who to warmer regions run,
May bless the favour of the sun,
But seek in vain what charms us here,
Life’s picture, varying with the year.

Spring, and her wanton train advance
Like Youth to lead the festive dance,
All, all her scenes are mirth and play,
And blushing blossoms own her sway.

The Summer next (those blossoms blown)
Brings on the fruits that spring had sown,
Thus men advance, impelled by time,
And Nature triumphs in her prime.

Then Autumn crowns the beauteous year,
The groves a sicklier aspect wear;
And mournful she (the lot of all)
Matures her fruits, to make them fall.

Clad in the vestments of a tomb,
Old age is only Winter's gloom—
Winter, alas! shall spring restore,
But youth returns to man no more.

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