There’s something particularly unwelcome about snow in March. We’ve had some warm days, some sunny days. I’ve started to think about the garden again. And not the late August garden of gnarly weeds, overgrown bushes, distended, brittle wildflowers and nipping at your ankles fleas. This is the tidy, enthusiastic, optimistic spring garden of little arugula. spinach, and kale plants, reaching up and turning into something that I could pluck and eat at my convenience. This is the fresh, salad-producing, colon-cleansing garden garnished with juicy strawberries, blueberries, and/or raspberries. Yes, we’ll have raspberries this year people! From Grandma’s garden! In prodigious amounts! In amounts that will invite grazing. Don’t even bother with a bowl.

I’m ready for that garden, not the cold, hard, barren, ice-bearded Dr. Zhivago garden that’s currently being featured out my frosted windows. What are we in the Urals? I’ve already put away the BIG coat, with the BIG hood and the fluffy insulation and the puffy sleeves. I’ve emptied its deep pockets of stiff, wadded tissues and random receipts, and sent that baby to the cleaner. I’ve been walking around in this sweatshirty, hoody sort of thing because I thought the cold weather was done. Over! Fini! Kaput!

And then March comes roarin’ in like a lion. Or maybe roarin’ like an ungrateful sonofabitch, giving us all the big fat frosty middle finger while singsonging, “Nah nah nah boo boo! Keep yer shovels handy bitches! Scrape that windshield. Tote that salt.” It’s a cruel and childish gesture. It’s selfish really, this Polar Vortexian wintry mix that insists on staying around long after everyone has run out of things to say, and we’re all looking at our watches, not making eye contact, inching closer to the door.

We were up for snow in November. We looked forward to it with childlike anticipation. Once autumn’s watercolor forest had turned to brown, we were grateful for the winter fairy dust to come powder the land. Illuminate the sinuous contours of our endless hills and hollows. Dust the worn rust-colored bricks and the cold gray gutters. Cover the grease and grime with shiny, clean white frosting. Remind us of the profound magical mystery of school-less snow days that had no agendas, guidelines, or particular destination. Remind us of sledding on the hill by the cemetery. Give us the taste of skating ponds and hot chocolate warming houses. Put us in the mood for Christmas and “Oh, wouldn’t it be great if it snowed while the kids were home.” Even well into January, I was ok with snow. It softens our footsteps and breaks up the doldrums, distracting us from the long days of darkness.

That was then. This is now. Now, I loathe the look of that snow shovel and broom on the front porch, tucked into the corner with their backs to me because we have nothing to say to each other. I’m tired of fumbling with my scarf every time I want to go outside, or not fumbling with it and then wishing I had fumbled with it because it’s still fr&@#ng cold!!! I don’t know where I put my gloves and I’m not looking for them anymore. Wahhhhhhhh!

Snow, oh snow, it’s time for you to go. Head south with the penguins. Antarctica is calling. And as it swells and thickens, we’ll shed our winter weight, that extra layer of comfort food that no amount of treadmilling or yoga will take off. With the greening of the white, let there be warmth, let there be light, let there be hope, let there be Peeps. Bring forth the horny spotted salamanders and the nesting songbirds. Let there be daffodils and multicolored tulips. Let there be riotous yellow forsythia cascading down the hillside like a wildflower waterfall. Let there be legions of redbud and dogwood. Let there be bicycles on bike paths adorned by delicate Japanese cherry blossoms, and even the occasional Bike ‘n Brew. Let there be music fests with bands I’ve never heard of and even a few mud puddles to negotiate. Let the deck-napping commence. Out with the lion, in with the lamb. Baaahhh!