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Show I xj&7 MaDUimttafiini ' Mr3 bj Nan Clialat So much for summer In less polite circles it is called a "sucker hole." It is manifested by a break in the weather, a bit of blue sky sandwiched between April sunshine and April snowstorms. And to be honest, I fell right in. I packed away my parkas, wool sweaters, skis, boots and gaiters. I cleaned out the car, removing the snow scraper, the can of quick-start and assorted unmatched mittens and gloves. And as my caution melted in the sunshine, I even considered retiring my snow tires. Actually, I was fairly suspicious at first pushing my down vest and polar pullover to the back of the closet but not entirely out of reach. And I carried a spare jacket wherever I went. But as those cloudless days continued and the mini-glacier mini-glacier under the north eave of the garage disappeared, so did my memories of springs past. My naturally wary intuition gave way to sun-induced euphoria and before long I had excavated my bicycle, lounge chair, flips, beach towel, shorts, cooler the whole cabana. So imagine my surprise when I awoke Monday morning to a scene more befitting Christmas than almost-May. The snow-drenched scene sent me reeling back to bed under the covers, where I tried to formulate Plan B. So much for summer. It was there that I realized I had been had just like some greenhorn who had just flown in from the big city. I should have known that winter would have its revenge, that last week's bout of summer was just a calculated tease designed to lure out gullible gardeners and fool winter transients into signing summer leases. Worse, I had been fooled, too. I had once again signed that mental lease wherein one sits down on the front stoop, gazes at the golden sunset and sighs, "Hey, this isn't such a bad place after all." All those hard lessons of survival, all those mornings spent cussing at the snow-entrenched snow-entrenched driveway just shattered and dissolved as if I had never absolutely promised myself once and for all that I was going to move to a tract house in the sun belt the mountains be damned. So Monday morning, instead of merrily humming and watering the daffodils, I scrambled for stored gear, chopped frozen laundry off the clothesline and retired back into my winter wardrobe I felt like a fool, but I took some comfort in noting that I was not alone. As I drove to town, hunkering down into my parka and glaring at the continuing snowfall, I noted the hammock that my neighbor had spent last weekend industriously installing now sagged with the weight of a soggy load of snow and that the new young trees another neighbor had carefully tethered in the back yard were forlornly shivering in the wind. I made a mental note never to risk my affection on a fruit tree in the mountains, and never to put my snow shovel away until June. But, of course, you know at the first whiff of spring next April I'll make the same mistakes again. |