March. They say it comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. I’m not sure the lamb part applies to Pittsburgh, but the lion seems right. Though actually, I don’t think I’d characterize it as a lion or a lamb, but something in between, more like some teasing, pink-faced monkey that steals your glasses and disappears with them into the trees, infuriating and magical. Or maybe an exotic bird you can hear calling but which refuses to be seen.
Last weekend, as the thermometer pushed 43 degrees, D and I found ourselves sitting with the kids on the front porch, soaking in the rays of sunshine warming us through the bare branches of the sycamore across the street. M decided it was warm enough for no jacket and refused to put it back on. D and I had a beer, sitting at the little white metal table taking turns eating saltines straight from the roll.
On Sunday I was suddenly taken with the need to organize the basement, getting rid of junk and excess furniture. And I’m gripped with a passion to take up home repair projects which have lain dormant for months–build those radiator covers I’ve got the supplies for, repaint the walls, re-tile the fireplaces, try out stencils, hire contractors.
The other day, on the first sunny 50 degree day, I take the kids on a long walk. I spot the first leaf buds on a bush, not yet green, and the scraggly trees are suddenly full of cardinals. Snow melts into icy mud; the roads are full of gaping potholes. The kids scream the whole way home, refusing to sit in the stroller but too tired to walk, hungry but impetuously pushing away snacks.
And today we wake up to find someone has keyed our car, a ragged, angry zigzag across one entire side, from front bumper to back, like a thunder bolt. A spring electric storm, March’s idea of a joke.