Springtime

    The calendar changed from February to March while I was in Oxford, MS.  The season changed to spring, right before my eyes.  The first night in Oxford was chilly with humid cold that seeps into the bones, past fleece layers and gloves.  By Sunday lawns were greening, tidy quilts of pansies appeared in beds, a bright red bird (not a cardinal, but what?) sang in the tree outside my hotel window.  That afternoon my flight would land in ice-coated Denver.  I’d make the long drive home on treacherous roads, dodging accidents.  It would be months before I’d see daffodils again.         

Springtime in Colorado is more a concept than a season.  Winter tends to move right to summer, with alternating patches of both in September or May or July.  When I was a girl, my teacher put up calendar posters with daffodils and grass for March, flowers blooming irreverently all over April.  I’d look out the classroom window at the dusty, brown brown brown playground outside, the April-bare trees, and daydream about the Easter dress my mother was sewing for me.  That Sunday I’d have to choose: wear a heavy sweater over the yellow checked seersucker, or wear my scratchy old Christmas dress to church.         

Why couldn’t otherwise smart teachers get the seasons straight? Those dumb posters were a full two months ahead of Colorado’s spring. I’d never hunted Easter eggs without a heavy winter coat.