Not-A-Snowdrop

Every year in late winter, I begin to watch for my first flower. About a third of the time it arrives in the last week of March; two-thirds, in the first week of April. Except, recently, it’s been moving closer to the middle of March (thanks to global warming, I suspect). Until this year, with our wickedly cold and deep and long winter (as a result of the as-predicted shifts in the jet stream), when spring teased us in mid March and than vanished for a couple more weeks. So the search began – will a flower bloom before the end of the first week of April?

Will it be a snowdrop? Muscari? an early crocus?

It has arrived, the first buds opening on Sunday, April 6th, just in time to fit within the first week.

But I can’t remember the name. It’s like a snowdrop, but it’s not a snowdrop. Snowdrops are fussy to grow here, and I have a few, but they’re still under a bank of snow on the east side of the house. My not-snowdrops grow in full sun, and this year, they won the race.

Maureen

The Tree Has Fallen

In January we stuffed our Christmas tree into a snowbank and I declared it would be spring when the tree fell over.

It started to lean in mid-March, when we had our first hint of spring, as the temperature jumped 49’C (for my American friends, that’s 88’F). The roads became lakes, the snowbanks melted, and enough basements were wet that people got twitchy, remembering last June’s massive flood.

The tree finally fell, and then the temperature dropped and it snowed and snowed and snowed, for what felt like every day of the last two weeks of March.

Yesterday the big melt began, with temperatures forecast to be balmy, but it snowed again last night, and the tree is once again dusted with snow.

I’ve decided to fall back on my old measure of spring ­– my first flower. The first bloom typically comes in the last week of March or the first week of April. I’m counting the days now, hoping there are snowdrops waiting underneath the snow.

Maureen

Have Treadmill, Will Travel

I have my treadmill, and I love it.

It almost didn’t fit – the official measurements were a little off, and it took a lot of futzing to fit into its very little space (100 lbs of awkward). What we thought was condensation turned out to be lubricant leaking when it was transported on its side, and I had to let that outgas for a few days before I could work in my office.

It’s all good now, and I love walking while I work. I find it invigorating, and more relaxing than working out when I’m watching the time. Now my time is about writing, which I love, rather than exercising, which is an obligation (on a machine. If I’m outside it’s a joy).

My body feels comfortable and quiet, I have more energy in my hands, and ideas flow more easily.

I stand beside a window, where I can watch birds, and squirrels marauding in the garden. I think an early spring pot of flowers on a table outside might be a nice addition, in a week or two.

The pace for walking while writing needs to be slow, but I find the slowest setting glacial, like that exhausting stroll through a museum. So I turn it up, a little for writing, a lot for editing, if I’m mostly reading. Of course, cursor accuracy vanishes at that point… but it’s fun going faster.

The worst part has been stepping off the treadmill and staggering, as my body expects the ground to be moving. A friend suggested I slow it down first, to let my legs adjust before stopping, and that helps.

Complications I haven’t figured out yet: which glasses are better for this distance (computer or regular multifocals); how to drink coffee while on the move; and whether I need to put a phone nearby. I’m not one to chat on the phone, and I often ignore it if I’m working, but there’s an awkwardness to leaping off the treadmill to answer it, and perhaps I’d chat more if I was in motion.

Mostly I ignore those complications, and simply walk and write, as I discover that walking helps me travel longer distances in my head.

Maureen