One day it was brown, dull, dormant at best, killed off at worst, by the most brutal winter in memory, and the next day, out of the blue, the grass flashed a lopsided green grin from its long winter slumber. The change was sudden, a welcome hallelujah.
Not only grass was sprouting. So too was my attitude, crushed to slush by week after week, month after month, of freezing weather and more snow than on the caps of the Sierra Madres. Grass? Until a couple of weeks ago, I hadn’t seen the actual ground since about January 23.
If you live around here, I don’t have to tell you this. The signs of spring and the evaporation of winter’s icy shackles have been all anyone in my neighborhood talks about when we see each other outside.
Just being outside, without hat, mittens, snow shovel, shoulders scrunched up to retain warmth as the marrow congealing blasts of wind make fun of my layers of clothing, feels like a transformative event.
How our ancestors in northern climes survived winters like this without central heating is beyond me. Not beyond me is why they invented holidays, festivals, and embraced merrymaking to mark the renewal.
In the coming weeks, all this profusion of green will become old hat, a ho-hum part of nature’s wallpaper.
Today, just the sight of it makes me smile.
Photos by Paul A. Tamburello, Jr.