Don’t worry about the plunging weekend temperatures. According to my daughter-in-law, we’ll be in the clear when we have three snows after the forsythia blooms. To keep things moving, she immediately cut a bunch of branches and brought them inside to force.
That was 2.5 snows ago (I swear I saw a new flake last night), and if the seven-day forecast can be believed, we’ll be in the mid-50s by next Saturday.
“Rushing the seasons,” as my mom used to call it, is an age-old tradition. Forty-five degrees in the fall prompts a heavy winter coat and thoughts of holiday cheer. In the spring, the same reading prompts a light jacket because, after all, we are only “running out” somewhere and the sun is shining.
Like children who gallop ahead marking birthdays and half-birthdays, we can’t wait for the earth to turn. Where seasons are concerned, that is. Birthdays are a different matter. After our 20s, I think there’s no rush at all.
