A week or so ago, I nearly wrote about the new breed of Minnesota weather wimps–you know, the people (or “officials”) who seem to call off all plans and events at the slightest suggestion of a snowflake in the forecast.
I hate it when a school “early out” is announced but the atmosphere remains completely mellow, and the students who have been liberated from their classrooms are happily cavorting at the local Y or gleefully purchasing 1,000-calorie iced frappes at Caribou before gathering in clumps of five or eight at friends’ houses to play FIFA.
Although I never wrote that piece, allow me, please, to TAKE BACK THAT THOUGHT. Did I bring on the latest round of persistent winter simply by laughing at the “snowflakes” in my mind?
Because here we are: Another Sunday, another snow day, another impossible, impassable travel day on the highways and byways of southwestern Minnesota.
Despite not being a golfer or even a stated fan of the sport, I’ve resorted to hours of viewing the Masters golf tournament in Augusta, Ga., simply to absorb the dreamlike scene of emerald green grass, pink bougainvillea and leafy trees. Is that for real? How long has it been since colors other than white or gray have been part of our landscape? There actually IS a place where spring exists?
Let me clarify, if I may, that my Masters tournament screen time has occurred in between dashes to the land of Narnia to clear narrow paths to our doors or shovel skinny tracks just wide enough for a vehicle to exit the garage without getting stuck in the five-plus inches of snow that have made their way to the ground since…oh, 9 a.m. this morning.
And how about that spring sports season? It’s seemingly as elusive as those heavenly bougainvillea. Track meets? Baseball games? Tennis matches? We’ll believe it when we see it.
Earlier, my husband actually thought it might be necessary to run the snowblower for “fun” to use up the remaining gas in its tank before making way for the lawnmower–ha! Dreamer! Now it’s more a question of whether we’ll need to refill it only one more time before this Dr. Zhivago-like scene retreats.
White-knuckle treks down rutted Highway 60, with low visibility and even lower confidence levels, have been ventured on several occasions in recent weeks. That old red plastic shovel, which I determined two months ago was destined for the garbage can this “spring” due to its worn-down, nearly useless edge, is still reluctantly in use. Backyard bunnies look befuddled; randy robins are rustling around in the barren brush, oblivious to the fact we can see their every move.
Meanwhile, Patrick Reed’s hot-pink polo, coupled with Rickie Fowler’s jolting orange slacks and cap, shock my eyeballs with the colorful contrast they offer to the white world outside my window.
Is it really too much to ask that a Monday morning start normally, with nothing in need of rescheduling and no debate about how long it will take before we can back a car out of the driveway?
Honestly, I’m no snowflake, but word of another possible “snow event” next weekend is starting to make my heart melt just a little.
Let’s hear it for sweet tea and Georgia Peach ice cream sandwiches–and a hasty end to this long (and getting longer by the minute) winter.