Spring in New England

(Picture from here.)


Spring has come to New England.

Outside of Boston, the crocuses have bloomed. The daffodils have come up. There are a scattering of bright green tulip buds that are desperately trying to open before they're eaten by the deer.

In the city, the signs are not so obvious but they are there if you know where to look.

The bicyclists have returned. Not the hard bitten ones that have been slogging through snow and over sheet ice since November. No, these are sleek, tanned even, in their oil slick shorts and aerodynamic, though not cold hardy, helmets. The winter cyclists, their fingers frostbitten and faces wind burned, sneer at them with contempt: where were you this winter?

The drivers, dazzled by the new sun and (somewhat) warmer temperatures, forget where the lanes are, drive through red lights and stop at green ones, go up one way streets the wrong way. Okay. They do it more.

Everywhere people are dressing in hopes of spring, from the tatooed, spike haired young man dressed in black T-shirt and fifties cuffed jeans to the tight skirted young woman feeling a certain air of freedom for the first time this year. Everyone, middle aged men driving BMW convertibles, smokers venturing out from under the eaves to catch some futile sunlight, businessmen wearing their summer suits, all defying the bluish tinge of their skin, their chattering teeth and trembling hands, the aching of every muscle of every hair as each follicle stands ramrod straight in a desparate attempt to hold onto the minuscule available heat, insisting, loudly, that it's not that cold.

Over at MIT, the Lyndon LaRouche volunteers have shown up asking for signatures. We always watch them carefully. After all, if they see their shadow, we get six more weeks of winter.

And make no mistake. Up here in New England, April notwithstanding, it's very possible to get six more weeks of winter.

Finally, the joggers and walkers have come out. In shorts. Slim. Trim. Grinning with rampant health.

I, of course, my fingers frostbitten and face wind burned, sneer at them with contempt: where were you this winter?
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