APRIL 11, 2023 – On this part of the planet, in many years we often skip spring and go directly from winter to summer. That seems to be the case this year. Just a week ago last Saturday, we woke up to another seven inches of snow on what was already a record amount of winter. Many people despaired of the March-end lion, especially since March had also begun as a lion. “When will this ever end?” people asked.
Today the mercury hit 80F, and out of nowhere, a crocus announced itself in our front yard garden. People busted out of their winter blues, wraps and cocoons. This evening in the neighborhood, everyone was outdoors and jubilant; couples out for walks; kids chasing up and down the sidewalks; neighbors chatting with neighbors. Fred (See “In the Neighborhood” series – 4/1 – 4/6) was out for his brisk, evening walk (running up the hills), sporting white summer pants, a short-sleeved Madras shirt and a bright, new sunhat. He stopped to chat with a bunch of us and gave us all hugs in embrace of life. Yesterday, he turned 80.
People spoke glowingly of his grand Easter egg hunt party for the neighborhood kids. Fred told us that after the party he was inundated with thank-you cards from the kids. “I was in tears,” he said.
Our granddaughter, Illiana, visiting for dinner, brought her own dimension to the celebration of winter’s end. On her scooter she rode up and down the block, mingled with kids, waved at grown-ups, tried climbing boulevard trees and laid out a picnic blanket and cushions in our front yard. She insisted that we eat dinner there. I compromised and reserved it for dessert.
Earlier in the day, I’d skied on what could well be the last skiable snow of the season in “Little Switzerland.” It was my 127th day of the winter, shattering to pieces all previous years but one—my freshman year of high school, when I skied every single day but 12 from the week before Thanksgiving through late April and weekends in May. The last day of that season (1968) was May 30, when nearly everyone at school, faculty included, skied the sunny slopes of Stowe, an hour-long school bus ride from campus. Bareheaded, we all skied our brains out. The price everyone paid was a face turned deer-hunter orange.
I thought about that day three times today: 1. When I slapped sunscreen on my face before skiing and pulling a summer sailing cap with visor and flaps well down over my head; 2. During one last descent down the front side of “St. Moritz” in sunshine and a temperature of 80F; and 3. At my six-month dermatology exam this afternoon, when my good doc—himself a devoted skier (as well as a polished pianist)—examined carefully my sun-damaged face. “Just for the record,” I told him, “when I skied this morning, my face was wholly sun-screened.” He laughed, gave me one shot of the frozen nitrogen, and turned me loose without having to report to a biopsy probation officer.
Life today was as great as the skiing was on that May 30—a million years ago.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
