Less than two weeks ago, I was enraptured by winter. A foggy morning after a night of snow revealed what seemed to be an enchanted landscape: the snow had accumulated to a depth of several inches on the tree branches, giving the appearance of elaborate icing on a cake straight out of fairyland. Once again I was aware of that phenomenon I had noticed in previous winters: that so much snow on the branches gives them the look of being in foliage, white instead of green. We are in the midst of an old-fashioned, snowy winter; the sort of winter we have not had in many years. I reveled in the sweep of sparkling snow covering the ground, the way it crunched underfoot, the long blue shadows of morning or evening.
But now I’m heartily tired of it. The snow falls every day, adding to what is already there, so that its depth can now be measured in feet, rather than in inches. That’s not really the bad part. What I’m tired of is the cold: the below-zero stuff. At first it’s fun — bundling up, walking briskly against the wind, feeling a sense of having successfully battled the elements once you’re indoors again. For a few days each winter, it’s something to look forward to, even welcome. When it happens over and over again, though, it reaches the point where enough is enough. Temperatures in the twenties would be great just now.
The most hopeful thing I can think of right now is something that’s happening in the distant desert southwest: “Pitchers and catchers report today.” The days are getting longer. Winter won’t last forever. Spring — and baseball — is coming.
