The Winter That Wasn’t

Just About the Extent of It

I’m unsettled about this winter that wasn’t. Aside from one snowstorm, the bit of ice on the welcome mat is about the extent of it. Snowdrops have been in full bloom in my neighbor’s yard since mid-January. Crocuses are popping up in mid-February. The palest sweep of red buds is just discernible if you squint and look hard.

The old battered snow shovel leans by the back door, used only once. My snow boots sleep by the stove. The landscapers look at their snowplows and shake their heads. The towns are pocketing the snow removal budgets. And a few of us born and brought up in a place where each season is clearly marked are nonplussed and a little uneasy.

Is it further evidence of global warming? Is it just an aberration? An annual reprieve? Is the jet stream taking a new course? People say, “There’s still March.” True. March can be a little iffy…one of those long months that often has a trick or two up its sleeve. But I say, “Where did winter go?” What happened to late November, December, January and now, February. What happened to the north wind rattling the windows? The snow piling up by the back door? The eternal quiet the morning after a blizzard? The unknown whiteness of the world? What happened to sledding and cross-country skiing and ice skating?

Daffodils blooming in late winter is just plain wrong.

Most of my friends would wholeheartedly disagree, I know. But I like the seasons here. I like each one to be fully realized. One defines the other: because of winter, I know spring; because of summer, I know autumn. But a winter like this is like too much water in a watercolor, and spring, though beautiful, will be a paler version this year. There’s also something satisfying in commiserating with your friends and neighbors about the perils and punishments of winter. It drives home the truth that we’re all in this together. We’ll all tough it out. We’ll look out for each other. We’ll make it.

Maybe it’s just old Yankee stuff or maybe it’s all those childhood years in upstate New York where winter was a serious affair and summer too…when the heat built up over the fields and the thunder rolled in and the lightning took your breath away. If we had had winter this year, I would feel a bit more at ease, balanced, without this twinge of worry nagging me. I would complain, yes, but even in the complaining, a part of me would say, “Well, it’s February. What do you expect?”

And spring, when it finally got here with its daffodils and forsythia, would have transformed the bare white landscape behind my eyes…the months of living with snow and cold forgotten. This year, there is nothing to forget. But I will remember those January snowdrops.