March in Maine

      I love God's creation. He has made spectacular and wondrous things. I love that here in Maine we have four distinct seasons and I am partial to autumn with its crisp air and falling leaves. I love having a fresh beautiful snowfall for Christmas and the winter activities it brings. Mid summer heat is not my favorite, but I love that it makes my flowers grow and brings outdoor adventures to remember. Late spring is filled with new life. Babies are being born and flowers blooming. Birds chirp their approval of their warming environment. It's all good.... except for March. I hate March. March is a month in which God teaches me to be thankful for the other months. March here in Maine is windy, cold, muddy, wet, and miserable. There are days when the sun shines brightly and you think it is mild until you are chased back inside by a biting wind that threatens to take the end of your nose to frost bite. Just recently we had the coldest day of this winter. Near 40 below with the wind chill. On occasion, a beautiful day pops up with 40 plus degree temperatures and sun that warms you through. This, of course, is only a tease, for the next day you are harshly jerked back to reality with sub- zero temperatures and wind that brings tears to your frozen eyeballs. My muck boots work overtime during this dreaded month. Mud season in Maine is no joke. You wonder where that much mud could possibly come from. You have to keep an eye on small children and pets as they may possibly be consumed by an endless pit of brown goo that could suck them in. The next day it is frozen solid and you are tripping over your footprints from the previous day. They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. It's all lion here. The lamb is hiding in the barn beneath a cover of warm sweet hay. I feel lazy in March. All I want to do is hibernate. A spot in front of a blazing fire is ideal as I sip a cup of piping hot tea and listen to a pot of hot soup simmering on the stove. Spring seems to be an unreachable dream and impatience for all things gardening weighs heavily on my mind. The sweetness of maple syrup boiling is the only reason not to completely banish the month, and my only hope is in the greenhouse. Sprouts of green and the trapped heat from the sun, mixed with the fresh smell of the soil remind me of what I hope is soon to come. My desire is to dig in the dirt and plant my seeds. I'm ready to hear peepers and the birds joined in a chorus of happiness. I wish to open the cabin door wide and invite the warmth of a gentle spring breeze, but right now I'm in the middle of March. I continue to dress for the arctic as we prepare for a snowfall tonight and I'll be tucking myself away next to the fire. Wake me when this is over.