Spring fever strikes winter weary

I dream of sandcastles, sun-drenched weekends, balmy breezes and barbecues.

But winter still holds us in its cold, hard grasp.

A week before Easter in late March, I see little signs of the new season, although the groundhog predicted an early spring.

Leaving work Thursday night in a blizzard, I prayed all the way home.

Pelted by wild, wind-driven snow, my sports car crawled. There was little visibility or traction; and the lanes of the highway were obscured by several inches of snow.

Yet the forecast was flurries. Go figure.

Today is sunny at Fogland State Beach, belying the biting gale outside the truck window. It feels more like a day in January.

We watch the surf slam the shore for a few seconds before we hear it. The angry wind is sandblasting our vehicle.

My husband cranks the starter, and the powerful Dodge Ram Hemi propels us in breakneck speed atop the frozen sand.

We like our navy blue paint just fine.

Heading up High Hill Road to the summer place, we park in the backyard and immediately notice something is wrong with the boat.

The black cover for the Tohatsu engine, that was duct-taped and tied with rope, has gone missing.

We scour the yard and search the farmland that abuts the property – all to no avail.

During our last visit here, we found the boat antenna had snapped in half. It hangs eerily overhead as we contemplate this winter’s escapades.

Tree limbs still decorate the lawn, and I notice a tabby cat weaving her way around them. Her yellow coat is a bright spot of color in the dull grey-brown backdrop of broken branches, stunted lawn and drooping sea grass.

We begin to back up when I see the daffodils waving furiously, as if to catch our attention. Holding onto their roots for dear life, they seem confused and in utter amazement at the world they’ve grown up into. Snow still clings to the trunk of a tree nearby.

As we drive away, the summer house looks forlorn; and it’s hard to imagine that in less than two months we will be back for another season in the sun.

But in the interim, we will continue to wear our woolen coats, fur-lined boots, scarves and gloves. Snow is predicted for Monday.

Nevertheless, we’ve learned an invaluable lesson: Never trust a groundhog.

 

 

   

 

The cautionary tale of Dolly Copp

Winter ended this morning when I awoke to birdsong, the official herald of springtime.

Sitting up in bed, I scanned the backyard through the multi-paned window searching for my companions; but despite the symphony, they were hidden from sight.

But what really caught my attention was the grimy window. The bright March sunshine showcased a winter’s worth of dirt that had accumulated on the panes.

Catching spring fever, I started a mental running list of things to do: wash windows and screens; vacuum and clean windowsills; wash, iron and hang curtains; vacuum cobwebs off ceilings; scrub fireplace bricks; paint front door red and lintel white; power wash unpainted shingles and brick walkway; stain railings along front stairs; power wash deck; hang basketball hoop; plant seedlings; weed and cultivate kitchen garden…

Then, I remembered the cautionary tale of Dolly Copp and stopped myself.   

Many years ago, I discovered an obscure sign near Gorham, N.H., in the deep woods of the White Mountains National Forest, marking the site of the Copp Homestead.

It read: “Here Hayes Dodifer Copp made his farm about 1827. He built a log cabin and barn and carved the farmland from the wilderness. On Nov. 3, 1831 he married Dolly Emery and brought her to this glen. A frame house replaced the cabin. Here travelers found fine food and comfortable beds. Dolly won early fame for her handicraft. Her woolen homespun linen and dyes of delicate blue, her golden butter, rich cheese and maple syrup were much sought after by the “city folk.” After 50 years of storm and sunshine, pinching poverty and substandard comfort, Dolly said, “Hayes is well enough, but 50 years is long enough to live with any man.” Dividing their possessions, Dolly and Hayes separated and left this valley.”

These words moved me so much that I wrote them down to reread whenever I get too ambitious.

Suffice to say, Hayes was not responsible for the breakup. The daily grind of housework eroded the marriage: the never-ending pile of laundry to scrub at the washboard by the stream; the dishes stacked near the hand pump; the unmade beds; the cobwebs in the outhouse; the batches of watery maple syrup, curdled cheese and butter that refused to churn; fingers stained a delicate blue; scratchy woolens on the loom…

My mother told me that my grandmother was a meticulous housewife. But there were times when she was in the middle of scrubbing the floor with the bucket at her side, and my grandfather asked her if she wanted to go for a ride. The bucket was left where it stood. She knew the secret to a happy marriage.

So whenever I get that overwhelming urge to clean, polish, scrub and fix things, I think of Dolly toiling for 50 years, only to call it quits and send Hayes packing.

History is a great teacher, and I plan to profit from Dolly’s mistakes.