… had no frills, frou frou or flowers upon it.
Instead, it was a fleece-lined, warm wool hat, with a huge fur pom-pom, and, it was a necessity to venture out in that cold air this morning.
After yesterday’s rain, this morning I waited patiently while the thermometer seemed to hover forever between 31 and 32 degrees. I wanted to wait until the temperature was 33 degrees so black ice would not be worrisome on the asphalt path.
I finally set out at nearly 10:00 a.m. It was a lackluster sun and sure not the brightest, nor best, weather for our Easter Sunday. Given this chilly Spring, it is unfortunate that Easter could not have been in mid-April instead.
I didn’t always wear a wool hat and squall coat when I ventured out on Easter Sunday. Here is a photo of me modeling my new hat and coat circa 1963, when Easter happened to fall on my birthday.
I think it was my first dress hat which did not tie under the chin. My mom insisted on plopping it onto my head, then positioning it at a jaunty angle and I kept “accidentally on purpose” trying to fix it to my liking. I didn’t like that hat as I thought it made me look old. It was not like I was a “fashion plate” at the tender age of 7, yet I protested each time I wore it to Sunday school, but my protestations fell on deaf ears and unfortunately it was mine until I outgrew it.
As mentioned above, as I walked to the Park, I mused that I certainly wasn’t dressed appropriately for Easter Sunday. I’m still wearing a configuration of nine different pieces of clothing to stay warm while walking through the breezy Park, especially since I walk parallel to the Creek. This morning that wind was humming along and the water was rippling with the breeze. Thankfully, Saturday’s wind finally died down. While the wind never got to the projected 50-60 mph gusts, I could still feel the house movin’ and shakin’ on occasion.
We’ve not turned a corner yet on this cold weather that continues to linger. This morning the weatherman commented that you might want to wear earmuffs with your Easter bonnet, and there is no significant warm-up in sight for at least two or three more weeks. Well, I’ll take it as long as the weather forecast does not come with rain.
Today I took a long and leisurely stroll, nearly six miles to be exact. Around the neighborhoods and through the Park I went, looking for some signs of Spring. I took some photos yesterday, but there was no sun then. Today, when the sun finally got brighter, I took the same pictures again.
At the Park, the subtle shades of green intermingled with the dead grass and marsh reeds to help define the magic of Spring. As old as I am, I still marvel that such a cold and snowy season can end, then suddenly new growth appears, those tiny bright-green tendrils reaching for the Heavens, or wrapping themselves around and alongside dead grass and decayed leaves in a still-barren landscape.
Those first tiny shoots pushing through the cold dark earth give credence to this Chinese proverb: “Spring is sooner recognized by plants than by men.”
Nothing says Spring is on the way like seeing the first robin of the year. They have been out in the neighborhood or at Council Point Park for several months now. This morning, I watched a couple of robins … or, perhaps I should say they watched me. I was very still as I wanted a close-up of them as they poked and prodded the hard ground with their pointed yellow beaks, trying valiantly to produce a worm. I wanted to tell them to forget about it ‘til May, but I let them go on about their business. Finally, the smarter of the two, flew up into a tree.
The other one kept stabbing the ground as if to prove a point to me.
Finally, wearing a look of exasperation, or maybe even humiliation, it looked me straight in the eye.
That long-anticipated “greening” of the Park carries over to the neighborhoods as well, telling me that perhaps Spring is really waiting in the wings, despite these cold temps and the occasional flurries that were flitting around my face this morning.
On my daily walks, I monitor the growth spurts of the neighborhood perennials … even the moss.
The snowdrops next to the crocuses are still holding their own, since I first discovered them at this spot and showed you a photo of them back on February 24th. Those poor blooms have weathered the wind, slush and torrential rains … and still look good.
But those plants’ tenacity is nothing like that of a former neighbor’s tulips and daffodils. One Spring I wrote at length about the bulbs that were planted sixty years ago by the original owners of the house. After they both passed away in 2010, their children sold the house and some outside landscaping took place immediately thereafter. Those prized tulips and daffs in the front and side garden beds, were the first to go, after a rototiller churned the beds up. Next, many wheelbarrows of mulch covered up the garden beds where evergreens and perennials had co-existed happily for years. I gasped when I heard the noise and investigated, then saw the result. Those perennials had been such a source of delight for the homeowners for many years, and frequently passersby remarked on their beauty when they all bloomed profusely in the Springtime.
Well, a few daffodils are back, refusing to submit to the rototiller blades and still standing tall like soldiers, their bright-yellow heads bobbing in the un-Spring-like breeze.
If only people were as resilient …