28 April 2008
You know, in Minnesota, spring is a strange thing. Its like a little faery that stays in hiding until the agonizingly last minute. You might catch a glimpse of her before then, peeping around a twig, or more likely, frozen dog poo. But then quick as a flash! She's gone and the snowy giant we all love to hate lumbers back again for one more round before toppling over into the Mississippi. I don't know why this little She-faery is so reluctant to return to our beautiful land. Perhaps she fears the competition with mosquitos. All I do know is that when she finally decides the time is right... poosh-whoosh-whomp-whee! Spring suddenly springs into action, blooming, singing, in a chorus of warm-weather-loving glee. We are so happy that she has finally arrived, we couldn't possibly be angry at her for taking so long. Clever faery.
Contrastingly, the springtime in England is a much more gradual event. Its more like an old man walking down a very long road and you are at the way way other end of this road. He is so far away, so small, you hardly take notice of him. Every day he gets a little bit closer, inching, scooting, stopping in at the pub. March only looks slightly less like February, April slightly less than March. Eventually, unsurprisingly and undramatically, spring is here- A steady old man who loves the birdsong and the purple flowers, quietly requesting that they stay on a little while longer. What's the rush, anyway?