Editor’s note: This commentary is by Walt Amses, a former educator and writer who lives in North Calais.
Although we in north central Vermont learned long ago that the simplistic notion of spring arriving based on the calendar is the stuff of broken hearts and frozen fingers, we do it anyway, fully prepared for crushed expectations and still acutely disappointed when they inevitably are. Helpless and dull, like animals waking from hibernation, we peek out of our bunkers when we see the sun rising higher and higher only to be driven back defeated, year after year.
While we generally content ourselves with brain salves like “It could be worse,” March 2014 actually couldn’t have been much worse, poised to go down as one of the coldest since weather records began in the late 19th century, without even considering the peeling wind and rock-hard glaze coating back roads almost since winter began. The couple of very brief thaws over the last three months only served to resurface the ice, like nature’s own Zamboni.
This winter that refuses to end has sadistically put the “boom” back in baby boom. Several people my age with an eye out for the next Zumba craze, have discovered a new aerobic exercise called simply “trying not to fall.” Failing that, “Getting up without further injury” and “Arriving back home safely” have become extremely popular as war babies begin speculating when they’ll need one of those “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” alarms and if such devices can be disguised as peace symbols or African beads.
Snowshoeing has suffered from both too much and too little of a good thing. Walking in such conditions has required a blend of fortitude and stupidity, coupled with the kind of equipment necessary for trekking the Dolomites. As clinched and tight as if tiptoeing through a minefield, we wear more layers than a spanakopita, gloves capable of safely handling strontium-90, sturdy hiking poles and the kind of cleats that generally alter gaits and restructure backbones to the point where we whine and chiropractors salivate.
In a couple of short months I’ve lurched from having a life-long amorous relationship with snow to a delusion that winter will never end and it’s only happening to me.
The 20 inches of ice on the ponds around my house last week was probably thick enough to support the Montrealer and will linger until Memorial Day weekend. Swimming in mid June at this rate will likely feel like diving into a martini.
As I’m jotting all this down, the last weekend in March, the National Weather Service — seemingly in preparation for April Fools Day — has issued a winter weather advisory with a combination of disruptive ice and 3 to 6 inches of snow a probability. I wonder why this isn’t covered by the Geneva convention or some “cruel and unusual” nuance of state or federal law.
In what feels in retrospect like something an Old World flagellant might do, a couple of weeks ago, bewildered by one day of clear skies and double digit temperatures, I bought seeds, flats and a couple of bags of designer dirt at the local garden supply store, figuring I’d get a jump on the season, unaware that the season was about to jump on me as the meteorological goon squad came calling.
In a couple of short months I’ve lurched from having a life-long amorous relationship with snow to a delusion that winter will never end and it’s only happening to me. The 15-mile drive to Montpelier only verifies my paranoia as earth peeks from seemingly every south-facing hill in the capital city while my house — where snowbanks still dwarf the SUV — looks like Doctor Zhivago lives there.
Since personalizing the weather probably isn’t the healthiest route toward emotional stability, let’s focus on what passes for positive: It’s no longer January and warmer, brighter April — according to T.S. Elliot “the cruelest month” — is knocking at the door … hopefully it’s wearing muck boots.
