Seven inches of snow fell Sunday, the wet heavy kind that weighs down a shovel and burns out a snowblower’s engine if the person using it isn’t careful. Thankfully, Hiram was careful, and what we couldn’t scoop away is melting fast.
The storm threatened to destroy my good humor, since the only reason I have any good humor this time of year is the hope of spring being just around the corner. In a desperate attempt to maintain a good attitude, I made a what-the-snow-is-good-for list while I walked: the flowering trees are less likely to bud early and be destroyed in a late frost; ditto for the tulips, daffodils, and other spring bulbs; the moisture is good for the farmland; spring fever among students of all ages won’t start so early; it’s easy to see the cardinals against the snow.
I reached the bridal wreath spirea hedge that borders the north edge of our property about when my Sister Mary Sunshine attitude started to wear on me. The bushes were bent nearly double under the weight of the snow, just like they bow beneath the splendor of their thick, white blossoms each May. Two years ago, I remembered, a late frost robbed the hedge of it’s white May crown. But two days ago the snow lay, sparkling and white, a foretaste of what is to come.
My good humor restored, I finished my walk. Who can be grumpy after finding spring’s crown buried under seven inches of hope?
