Yearning for Springtime

All night long the branches of a wind-blown tree were scratching against the window, and there were snow flurries in my dreams.

Isn't March is supposed to leave like a lamb? But it's roaring like a lion despite spring’s arrival and an early Easter weekend about to begin.

It’s cold here, damn it. Sometimes I would even use the dreaded adjective RAW, which means I am chilled to my bones in a damp, gray way, and I desperately need an infusion of warm sunshine or proximity to a radiator. I am tired of wearing coats and sweaters, annoyed that my sheepskin hat is still useful and a scarf around my neck is more than just a fashion accessory.

I suppose one could defiantly step out without them, like those suburban teen-age girls who boarded the bus into Oxford the other day with exposed bits of midriff and barely a sweatshirt in sight, but I just don’t have that sort of endurance, and my desire to remain unfrozen long ago exceeded my desire to look sexy.

I like it here – don’t get me wrong. This is a place that understands daffodils, which should be in great profusion everywhere, and are. I also appreciate the fact that people of all ages actually use their bicycles to get around here, and there were poetry inserts(!) in the Guardian all week, and the impulse to apologize seems to come more quickly than anger.

There are old churchyards, lush green grass, Indian restaurants that deliver to the house, and multiple types of cream. There are plenty of bookstores, beautiful old buildings, and zebra crossings too.

I just can’t handle the cold. I DID cold. I’m done with it.

In Brooklyn, New York, where I spent my childhood, springtime was ambivalent -- it would creep in and dart away a few times before it finally got comfortable and settled. We encouraged it with songs about bluebirds and robins, for we were tired of the winter grown dreary and wet, tired of numb fingers and socks and mittens placed on the radiator to warm.

Spring’s calling cards were crocuses, followed by pussy willow, hyacinths, and the yellow forsythia that seemed suddenly to be everywhere. Barren treetops grew lacy with spring green buds, the earth became muddy and aromatic, and there were lilacs on Long Island.

As time passed, I went to other places, braving winters even more hard-hearted than those I had known on the Eastern seaboard. Places like Syracuse, Chicago, Madison. Only people who have lived in winter’s clutch for six long months can appreciate the euphoria of the first warm days, when suddenly the very earth seems to breathe.

Remember Madison? There were the smells of saplings, jasmine, mud, and patchouli oil. Bare-backed boys threw frisbees while slender coeds positioned themselves like ladyfingers on the lawns, tanning their milky legs. The white dome of the capitol glinted in the sunlight, the lakes sparkled, and people bicycled happily in the brisk bright air. Girls wore gauzy blouses from India in wonderful rainbow colors and let their long hair frizz and flow. Even the dogs sported bandanas...

Much later, I came to California. In April, a crazy cacophony of wind chimes was unleashed while brazen yellow mustard shocked the hills and calla lilies grew wild by the creeks and I was stunned by the audacity of it all. There is a myth about the seasons in California -- that the changes are subtle. No doubt its origins are back East.

Braced against the icy wind whipping over Lake Michigan in 1971, I am sure I would have resented the knowledge that Californians are rewarded with an intoxicating springtime for their anemic sacrifice of spending a couple of days with sweaters buttoned. No, the suffering would have seemed too inequitably distributed. We consoled ourselves instead with the popular fiction that California seasons spin without transition one into another -- and all that mildness would be dull.

Now I know otherwise. But the price has been a reduced tolerance to anything remotely resembling cold. And so this prolonged English winter that is now stomping its boots in spring’s foyer is bringing out the wimp in me. Exactly how cold is it? Thirties, forties...I know that doesn't exactly sound severe, but add some wind and wetness, then factor in my bitterness...and it starts to feel downright unpleasant.

So I'm craving some springtime. The real thing. It's time.

But I'm bracing myself to get up now. Caffeine is a powerful lure.