a.k.a. V.J.

As I write this, a full month after the vernal equinox, the weather outside is 43 degrees, overcast, and threatening to rain. That is to say that it’s a typical spring day in Central New York.

When I talk to people from outside this area, they will sometimes ask me about our famously harsh and snowy winters. I always say that the winters don’t bother me so much, but what passes for spring around here is absolutely miserable. Some of the worst blizzards I’ve experienced have happened in the back half of March. April is almost always chilly and damp. Even the beginning of May will sometimes bring a random snowfall — the kind where the flakes melt upon impact with the relatively warm ground, but the mere sight of them on the way down is enough of an affront to kill any good mood.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten better about being indifferent to the weather. After all, if one is going to voluntarily live in a place with an unforgiving climate, one must learn to forgive the climate. Still, there’s something about a cold spring day that rankles.

I suppose it’s the sense of false hope being dashed by unpleasant reality. In January, chilly weather is expected, so when it comes, there’s nothing to complain about. In April, it could be nice and in many parts of the country it will be, so when it’s not, there’s an irrational feeling that Mother Nature is just being a jerk.

Glancing at this week’s extended forecast, I see the usual April mix ahead: a high of 65 on Tuesday and then a chance of snow on Wednesday. But that’s the workweek, and I’ll probably be too distracted to take much notice. Peering out the window at cold, grey skies and wishing in vain for better is a Sunday morning indulgence.