Thanks for Not Much, Mother Nature

(Reprinted from the Keene NH Sentinel)

“Mother Nature isn’t getting an invitation to my birthday party this year,” said the exasperated reservations clerk in northern Maine as we chatted last week about a fishing trip I’m making there in a few months. But then, Mother Nature isn’t going to be getting invitations anywhere from most winter-chapped New Englanders this year.

The signs of spring — you remember spring, don’t you? — have been infrequent so far this season. A flock of geese here. A daffodil there. A snow pack not quite as high as it was last week. My New York City daughter says it’s all because of me — Mother Nature and the gods of revenge have me squarely in their cruel sights. I look at it paying my dues.

You see, way back when, before retirement, we lived in the South, that sunny region below Hartford where spring truly arrives in March and occasionally in February. Where the azaleas and dogwoods leap into fiery color, plants begin to display blooms and grass actually threatens to grow. Where people drive convertibles with the top down. Where restaurants find their al fresco business booming. And where — year after year, faithfully and relentlessly — I would call my daughter to recount the glories of the new season, with mentions of 75-degrees and my need for some new shorts and and tee-shirts. She, of course –stuck in a New York that resembled something out of Dickens’ worst-imagined, filthy snow, sub-freezing temperature urban landscape — could only grit her teeth and vow I would someday regret my familial callousness.

She was right.

Retirement brought us to rural New Hampshire to be much closer to the kids and grandkids and to fully immerse ourselves in the lovely, charming New England of our imagination. Alas, no one ever mentioned the fact that we would lose sight of the woodshed behind the snow pack in January to have it reappear only recently. No one mentioned that the dog would decide the sheet of ice on his runway was something to be avoided until the temperature hits 50. And definitely no one mentioned I would pull into the garage one chilly morning to discover that Mother Nature’s evil invention called black ice was ready to send my truck into the side paneling.

She was right.

And now that spring is upon us — or what passes for early spring in these parts, something I believe only ski resort owners could applaud — I am finding that I’m drawing ever closer to the New England ethos (forgive me that inflated phrase). I used to respond to queries from my new friends as to how were coping with the snow and cold by insisting we were doing fine. And we were. the wood stove is a marvel, without which I would be even deeper in debt to the fuel oil company. We didn’t lose power. The cars ran. We visited the kids. Life moved forward.

Now, when our friends — really, everyone we encounter — remark on how awful the cold weather is and bemoans the delay of spring, we concur. In fact my southern accent was apparently sufficiently covered by a scarf the other day that one storekeeper in Keene asked if I remembered a winter around these parts colder than this one. “Nope, this one just won’t quit,” I replied with all the pseudo-authority I could muster. “I don’t know that we’ve had one this cold for a while.” That is actually true, but I would be referring to Atlanta, where it truly has not been this cold this year. Or ever. I felt a little ashamed as I left the store, and think I heard the man behind the counter laughing.

So she was right.

But here’s a little secret for us now-New Englanders to share with our new neighbors. That 75-degrees in Atlanta I mentioned? Those lovely blooming flowers? They are now disgorging reams of yellowish pollen, which will stick to everything in sight including the flowers, convertibles and tee-shirts. And anyone with even a hint of allergies will wish themselves in the worst New England winter for the next six weeks when the pollen avalanche reaches its peak. And by that time the humidity levels will have risen to spectacular heights that appeal mostly to alligators.

So I’m right where I want to be, as it turns out. Joining my fellow New Englanders in a chorus of whining and complaining about our never-ending cold. Preparing to celebrate when that first 60-degree day arrives. And dreaming about getting a truck wash someday. And seeing our dog rejoice in Mother Nature, whose cruelty we will certainly have long forgotten.