Spring chores

It’s almost unbelievable, but my Beloved mowed the lawn today.

It’s not the “Beloved mowed” part that’s unbelievable — it’s the “mowed the lawn today” on March 22 that amazes me.

We’ve been enjoying 80-degree temperatures this week, and I’ve been feeling lucky. Not lucky in a cartoonish sloppy St. Patrick’s Day way, but lucky like I’m blessed.

The roads into downtown this morning were clear and dry. The sunshine beckoned me to dine outside at lunch. My coffee this afternoon was iced, not hot.

Wow. I know this is rare, record-breaking weather. And I know this is northern Illinois and Jack Frost may be waiting around the corner. And I know it might mean weeks of sweltering 90-degree temps in July or some other revenge from Mother Nature.

But like a housewife in need of a manicure, I’m soaking in it.

That reminds me. I need to pay a visit to the salon post haste before I can break out the sandals. My Christmas pedicure isn’t holding up so great.

Illinois: The new South?

The freaky-deaky weather has me thinking the world has turned upside down. St. Patrick’s Day means the snow blower has been put into storage, and sharpening the lawn mower blades on the Honey Do list. Next thing you know, people will be moving from the south when they retire:

Enjoy the premier retirement living environment in beautiful Illinois. Escape the sweltering South for a true, four-season life of mild winters, pleasant summers and fewer tornadoes than hurricanes.

Of course, last year at this time, the green river in downtown Chicago was still ice cold, so I suppose an investment in Illinois retirement properties might be premature.

For now.

What this world is coming to

Look who thinks it’s May. Under a week of 70-degree temperatures, these spears of green in the garden herald flowers.

In a world of climate change, even the old adages spoil in the heat. March sunshine brings March flowers.

March madness

If March 1 was mild but March 2 brought four inches of heavy, wet snow, does that mean March came in like a lamb or a lion?

Mother Nature speaks. And she roars!

What snow means

What the six inches of snow that fell last meant to:

Friends on Facebook: A chance to post pretty pictures of the snow-covered landscape.

My mother: The potential for tragic weather-related car accidents.

My Beloved: “Ooh, a chance to use my new snowblower!”

The neighbor kids: A snow fort and snowball fight.

To me: Gratitude that I work from home where I can see the pretty landscape (and snowblown sidewalk and snow fort) but I don’t have to contend with the traffic.

66 days ’til spring

Well, we knew it couldn’t last. The unseasonably warm winter came to an end Thursday when the precipitation falling from the sky turned from water into icy flakes.

About four inches of snow fell overnight last night, and my Beloved broke out his ridiculously overpowered new snowblower.

Take that, Old Man Winter!

That machine throws snow 25 feet, easy. The snowplow driver this morning went back and forth in front of our house five times, competing with Tyler as he blew snow from our driveway into the street and the snowplow driver attempted to get back to clear asphalt. Tyler won.

Tonight, as we were soaking in the hot tub, big fat snowflakes fell into the hot bubbly water and disappeared into the steam.

Consider yourself warned, Jack Frost: Snow doesn’t stand a chance around here.

Nothing says January like fresh grapefruit

Exactly one year ago, I was settling into new digs at a resort near McAllen, Texas. Or one might consider the digs old since we were staying in a 1983 RV in a 55+ community (my mother-in-law helped us meet the age requirement).

McAllen, Texas 2010

It was the first of many sunshine-filled days last winter. Nearly every morning upon my return from my walk or run around the compound, I picked grapefruit off the tree just outside our camper.

Today, 1,400 miles north, I ran outside, too (ugh, the credit card we used for our Snap Fitness membership expired and I was denied entry early this morning; this has since been remedied). The sun was shining, the roads were clear and dry and I wore the running outfit my sister gave me for Christmas.

It’s the kind of glorious January day that comes along too rarely so actually, being denied the opportunity to run on a treadmill indoors was a gift.

I returned home to a lovely, juicy grapefruit, not picked from a tree outside but picked up yesterday at Costco, where everything is like Texas: Big. I’ll be enjoying that bag of citrus for two weeks. January is the season for grapefruit, and I can’t resist that delight, even in bulk, even six states away from the fruit’s point of origin.

It was like sunshine in a bowl. Yum.

Is Mother Nature taking her cues from us?

My Beloved claims you can credit him for the mild winter so far.

You see, he bought the world’s biggest snow blower in November. The few flakes we’ve seen here in northern Illinois barely required a broom, let alone a snow blower. Since he prepared, of course, it doesn’t snow.

My stepson, looking for a romantic outing with his sweetheart back in Minnesota  this week, planned to go skiing. Until the weather forecast predicted highs in the upper 30s. He was so disappointed.

Even I, the winter-hater who clings to the treadmill when the weather turns cold, have run or walked outside several times this month. Without complaint.

The Chicago Tribune today claimed the balmy December weather foreshadows a wet and mild winter (ironic, since I heard we were in for the mother of all winters earlier this season). Check out this line from the news story:

Even if the weather does break bad, the worst of winter can’t last more than another few months.

Oh, no. I hope the reporter knocked wood when he wrote that or we’ll all be in for a Mother’s Day blizzard.

Skate dates

Dec. 29, 1980

Dear Diary,

I went skating twice today. When I went this afternoon, I went with Carrie and Wayne & Rick were there. In fact it was kinda fun. I almost called Tim. I am afraid that he doesn’t like me. Or maybe he thinks I don’t like him but if that’s the case, he is dead wrong.

Ice skating has always held a certain romance for me. When I was growing up on the frozen tundra of northern Minnesota, the ice skating rink was a hub of activity. A place to meet and greet. To see and be seen. Long johns and down jackets were ways to look fashionably attractive (or so I thought).

Back then, I did what good Minnesotans are supposed to do: Enjoy winter with outdoor activity. Ice skating in almost any temperature (and wind chill) was one way to while away a cold day, even if you spent most of the time in the warming house.

Now I while away the winter by staying as far away from the outdoors as possible, but I still think of ice skating as a romantic activity.

My stepson, who lives with his mother in Minnesota, got new ice skates for Christmas, he told me last night (apparently, the rules about opening Christmas presents on Christmas don’t apply at his house). Many of his friends play hockey, and he was happy to report he could skate backward and he was “pretty good out there.”

I didn’t care about his prowess at checking, but he mentioned his girlfriend has ice skates, too. “Oh, how romantical,” I said with a flourish on the imaginary word romantical.

I smiled, thinking about the crushes I nursed around those rinks in the ’80s, about holding hands while taking corners, about leaning on a boy to keep from falling. And I hoped my stepson feels those same warm flutters of the heart at the chilly rink.

 

Winter worms, not wonderland

It’s beginning to look a lot like a slick and shiny Christmas around here.

I noticed this worm was inching its way across my coated asphalt driveway this afternoon when I got the mail. It’s been raining for 24 hours, and the landscape is as soggy as a bowl of leftover shredded wheat. Worms are not normally a common sight in northern Illinois on Dec. 14, but they are today. The high was 47 degrees, so there was no chance the precipitation was going to turn to snow.

As a girl who grew up in northern Minnesota, I ought to dream of a white Christmas, but I don’t. Falling snow is one of the most beautiful meteorological phenomenons around, and it’s truly a scientific wonder. Think about it — snow is solid water falling from the sky, and yet no one is knocked out by it. Imagine if hail was as common as snow! But after it falls, wonderful or wonderous, snow on the ground is just a pain in the butt. Especially when you slip and fall on your butt. And about three days later, the snow on the ground is as ugly as it is dirty.

I don’t like shoveling it, I don’t like walking in it and I don’t like driving in it (I’ll remind some of my newer readers my brother died in a winter weather-related car accident a dozen years ago so, yeah, my mother frets every time she hears one of her daughters is traveling in the elements). Fortunately, the shoveling is taken care of this year because my Beloved invested in the world’s biggest snow blower. OK, maybe not that big, but like everything with him, it’s go big or go home, or in this case, go big or go south, and since we’re not going south for the winter this year, he went big. That thing’ll blow snow into the neighbor’s yard, I bet.

And, of course, after investing in something like that, it rains. In the middle of December.

But I’m not going to complain it’s not going to be a white Christmas. Instead, I’m going to make like the worm and inch across the figurative driveway that is winter.

Eventually, I’ll get to the end of it.