I love winter. I do. I generally don’t fuss overmuch during the snowstorms we inevitably endure in March, or the below zero temps in February. Winter when you live next to a golf course is blessedly uneventful and almost silent, but for the owls hooting from the abandoned woods between tees.
However, we’re a week away from Beltane and even I am tired if winter this year. In Minnesota, April had one quick burst of heat, a few days of 80 degrees, as though we would skip spring entirely and go straight to June. That was just a glimpse, a cruel tease followed by weeks of rain, snow, and barely-above-freezing temps. I just want to be able to open windows, for crying out loud.
Today I can sit on the deck, on bright and loud new chaise lounge cushions, and listen to golfers bluster at each other on the first tee. Soon we’ll have a buffer of leaves between us, but today I can clearly hear their slicing swings, the snap of club hitting ball, often followed by the distinct thud of ball hitting one of the trees between us and flying off into our woods. Then the occasional good-natured curse or ribbing between players before the cart hums off to the next hole.
It’s fascinating how loud business men doing spring golf can be during the sales rituals on the course.
I’m finally ready for leaves and mowing and summer night campfires, long hot afternoons on the hammock, and gardening.