After getting pummeled with all that snow it was 48 degrees today. The mounds we shoveled high became deep puddles. It was muddy and messy getting the kids to school and the walking the dogs but I’ll take it because reenewal is in the air. At least I hope it is because the winter has been making me, like everyone, irritable and restless and wondering what the hell is really wrong with me—I mean it can’t really just be the cold? Can it? But then the sun came out and the boys asked if they could play outside before dinner and it felt like recovery to just open the door and let them run out. Watching them from the window I noticed that our snowmen and my snowball sculpture had shrunk in the sunshine and it was hard to realize that the storm was only a rumor a week ago. Conrad saw it to and he came in and said, “My frog is dying!” It made me think of the poem that The Writer’s Almanac featured last night Ground Waters, by Alison Apotheker. I had to fight the urge to tell him how much I need his frog snowman to die, in fact  I’m hoping that all the snowmen in town are murdered by more spring-like days.

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