Well, good morning to you, too.
It rarely rains here with any kind of vehemence. We might get one or two good loud summer storms a year, but they’re almost always over with quickly. Today the rain came with just enough wet, sloppy snow to make me groan a little.
If this is what it takes to bring on the spring flowers, so be it. Every year when the last gray islands of snow are all that remains of the winter landscape, I ask myself why I didn’t plant bulbs in the fall, anything that would cast yellow and purple light into the utter brown of spring. This year I’m going to have to change that. You can hold me to it, if you want to.
Because really, I can go out walking in this neighborhood on wet or dry days and keep my eyes peeled for color and signs of life, but I think I can handle taking a little responsibility for some color of my own. I know there are bulbs out there that will survive even these winters. So this year when I break out my enormous yellow umbrella and walk through these streets, I’ll be looking… and appreciating… and planning for next year. Spring always comes back around.
And so do spring visitors. I came home from the store Friday, and the first chipmunk of the year was waiting on my porch. He was spring-skinny and holding something round and brown while he nibbled on it. I dropped my bags to the sidewalk and gave him a talking-to. “Just because the baby isn’t here to give you the evil eye doesn’t mean you’re welcome here. This is a no-rodent zone.” He turned around and looked at my front door, looked back at me, and scampered under my front porch, dropping his snack while he went. Everything goes on. Tulips are proof.