Under a Foot of Snow, Signs of Spring

Local newscasters tell us we’re under about a foot of snow.  I’m inclined to believe them. I captured the above photo yesterday at 4:06 p.m. That’s Eastern Time, I feel the need to add, because sometimes even people in New York who claim to love me have to be reminded that those of us in Ohio live in the same time zone as they do. I correct them, they apologize, and six months later we’re having same conversation again.

“What time is it where you’re sitting?”

“Same time as where you’re sitting. Even if I stand.”

I have had this conversation with people in New England too, occasionally. And once, with a reporter I did not know who called just past 8 a.m. He had a Washington area code and so I answered, “Hi, honey,” but that’s a story for another day.

“I’m sorry,” the reporter said. “I know it’s early where you are.” I assured him we lived in the same time zone and that it was early for both of us. Ten minutes later he was apologizing for having asked if I ever regretted my marriage to a senator and we agreed that both of us would have benefitted from drinking more coffee and talking after 9:00 a.m. Eastern Time.

If you’re like me, and I would never presume to offend you by suggesting such a thing, you may look at this photo of our front porch and initially think it’s in black and white. Look a little closer and you’ll see that green chair cushion—the one I was supposed to store in the basement for the winter—peeping out from under the snow like a little tattle tale. Yes, I have failed to keep up with basic home maintenance. Now you know.

This photo came about after I had stepped out to feed the birds for a second time. I had been worrying that weather would ground Sherrod’s flight home, but he had just let me know he made it to the airport to nab one of two remaining seats on an earlier flight. I don’t recall another time in our marriage when he sounded so happy to be sitting in a middle seat.  

My husband was coming home and I was in a state of nervous happiness, which is that brief period between worry and everything’s fine. My heart needs time to settle down. So, I fed the birds a second time. Good news shared is joy magnified, or so the birds told me.

I’ve written before about how I grew up as a snowbelt warrior, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have moments when I look out the window in January and wonder if we’ll ever see spring again. Irrational, but there it is. I am grateful to our porch for its signs of reassurance.

Look beyond the chair and you’ll see that light gray pot sitting on a stack of side tables. Every spring, I fill it with white double impatiens and add greenery that, by mid-July, cascades down the sides of the pot like a waterfall stopping to hear the applause. Next week I’ll be putting in my order for another batch of those blooms. Few things give me more hope in the dead of winter than planning for summer porch mornings when I will drink coffee, read the news, and talk to neighbors who like to tell me what’s on their minds.

This batch of flowers was called Rockapulco Impatiens. Say that out loud and you might smile.

That little guy on the table is a cast iron frog. In winter, he looks braced for a hug that never comes, but I tell our grandchildren he’s just staying in shape for his summer job. He holds the rain gauge in Sherrod’s vegetable garden. I confess to having a complicated relationship with him.

Whenever Sherrod is in Washington during the growing season, which is most weeks, he constantly checks his phone for rain updates. If he sees it’s been raining in our neighborhood, he asks me to check the frog so that I can tell him how much water made it into his garden. I’ve stopped explaining that no matter how nice I am, the frog refuses to speak to me. Some jokes just will not land. Instead, I often pull on my wellies and a floppy hat and walk across the yard—in the rain. I may occasionally mention that last part to him.

The rude frog.

I understand nobody is making me do this. I have reasons for cooperating, beyond my love for Farmer Brown. Come harvest time, I love to wear my wide-brimmed straw hat as I stroll through the garden with a basket looped over my arm to collect the bounty. It’s the closest I get to feeling like the farm wives who came before me, on both sides of my family. One of them, my paternal grandmother, died when I was 2. She had wanted to be a writer. I talk to her all the time.

This past Christmas, I gave Sherrod a new rain gauge. It’s a tall thing, with big numbers that may be visible from the kitchen window. He was gracious about it, but I could see by the look on his face that he was wondering why he needed such a thing when he already has a frog and a wife. I just picked the lint off the nearest couch pillow and pretended not to notice. There are all kinds of ways to say I love you.

Walter, barely.

Look at all the summer memories banging at the door. I wonder if our dogs hear them. Yesterday, they were carving out paths on the deck that fell far short of the yard, but they’re venturing out now. Our little Walter is usually a one-ear-up kind of guy, but both of his ears were exclamation marks this morning. Twelve-year-old Franklin leaps and frolics and then appears to freeze in place. Twice yesterday I had to pull on boots and walk just close enough for his pride to kick in.

I can’t help but think the Cheshire cat, pictured at the top of this essay, is laughing his tail off at us. He’s a water bowl for birds, waiting for spring like the rest of us. Look at him rolling his eyes.

I don’t have the heart to tell him how silly he looks under all that snow. Cats have feelings, too.