According to the placement of the moon and the sun and the stars and the prevailing winds and the freezing rain and the snow and the sunshine and the sixty-two degree day thrown in, my hormones are fucked up.
I wake up full of cheer and zest.
As I wait for my coffee to brew, I pull my jacket on over the outfit I grabbed off the floor from yesterday and I begin to wander.
I cannot pull together a plan for the day.
It hits me out on the path as Hunter squats to do his business and Tuna lays in ambush.
"Get dressed."
I stand in front of my closet and stare.
In Wisconsin we have summer clothes and we have winter clothes.
We do not have closets filled with Spring attire unless you count that old Easter bonnet up on the top shelf in the hall.
Folks groan about Fall when it rears its beautiful face of yellow, orange and crimson, before it turns to brown.
The transition is easy by comparison.
I expect the oncoming anxiety and depression caused by the lack of sunlight and holiday stress.
But I am able to brace myself with all the warning signs on the tv, beginning with Halloween. And I can dig a hole and hibernate with the best of them.
It is not that difficult to add a layer and then throw a sweatshirt over that and eventually a coat goes over the sweatshirt and then you slip on boots, hats, and scarves.
But Spring?
Spring does not come in like a straight line wind.
It is muddled, it is muddy and it is cold.
At sixty-five I am once again a giddy teenager.
My heart flutters and jumps around like I am in love.
But with who? Or what?
I am a great big giant pimple ready to burst.
They say that a crystal meth high is a feeling of anticipation, which is reason enough for me to stay away.
I cannot take it.
The Spring that is written on the square of my calendar dated March twentieth this year, is not the Spring they write about in poems.
It is not the Springs I recall, digging in the dirt, surrounded by green grass and picking wild flowers to place on my window sill.
It is the other Spring.
You know the one.
The season in between the season in between.
Hang on a minute. My sister is talking.
"What's that Louisa?"
Oh, my sister said that my grass has never been green. It has always been full of dead spots from Hunter and all his doings.
"Why don't you mind your own bees wax?!"
Just the other day, Hunter, the world's oldest and wisest dog, coming into his fourteenth Spring now, wandered to the back of the house.
I believe, that he believed, the pond, his love, was calling to him.
Well, he lost his way.
But he was able to find a large puddle formed by melted snow on the cement patio outside the basement door. This is where he lounged about until my Sweet Sven and I helped him to his feet and back up to the front door.
A few days later he made it to the bank of his murky friend of muddy water and he was just as jubilant as Sven was screwed, as I was not home at the time and was not able to assist with the assist of a lifetime.
At what point is it totally uncool to wear your favorite flannel shirt that you have been wearing for the last three months over a handful of t-shirts you kept on hand for sleeping under your Sherpa comforter? And does anyone have any pointers on how to fix my top drawer that has become a jack in the box of knee highs, slipper socks and those thin anklets I threw into the mix so that I could show off my new tennis shoes that are now on top of the pile of snow boots, rain boots, shoes, slippers and sandals next to the door?
It would be nice to have this situation remedied before the real season shows it's beautiful face.
Thank you.
