I just don’t know what to think anymore. Flowers. February. I’ve only just talked myself out of wearing longjohns, but I still leave my house every morning with mitts, a scarf, and a toque and end up BOILING within 5 minutes. And now flowers and leaf buds?
In Bristol, it started a little over two weeks ago, first just those hearty shrubs that never lost their leaves had fresh berries and some flowers. Then there were crocuses and spring flower shoots popping up. We took a trip out to the English Riviera (resembling a tacky French Riviera – with tracksuits, arcades, light-up staircases, and trailer parks
and New Brunswick, and FULL of old people) where the Floral Coup was in full effect: tulips, daffodils, iris, crocuses, something that looked like a mix of a hibiscus and rose were all blooming; cherry blossoms were budding and even hydrangea bushes were budding.
They claim spring comes in March, but we never believed them. Ya, ya, we may have some warm days, but you knew a fresh dump of snow was going to fall freezing and covering up the slush to form slippery, jagged pits on the road. But spring in February? The month that damn groundhog comes out and tells the world if we are getting 6 more weeks of winter; but in
Saskatchewan, we know it is inevitable. I can’t say I’m complaining with the early arrival; I haven’t shoveled, the hill I live on only turned into an icy mountain of death three times (and I never experienced that fall with the sickening crunch at the end), and my fingers only turned white and lost all feeling once (in Amsterdam). But my concept of time is all screwy; there are days where I wonder really how long I slept for. We’ve skipped from early November to late April, and I never once stepped on what looks like a frozen puddle, only to end up ankle deep in slush.
My brain is having troubles coping; I am not ready for weeds and the cherry blossoms blooming in my garden. I will keep carrying mittens and scarves with me until at least mid-March, just in case.
(And for those of you, spiteful in Saskatchewan, fear not, I’ve lost count how many times a rogue shoot from shrub has got me in the eye so far.)