Anything is Possible 2/5/2023

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

It’s that time of year again. Now, you may be wondering what exactly time I am referencing, and I assure you that I am honestly attempting to answer this question. I don’t know exactly what this period should be named.  We’ve just begun February and the seasons are just doing whatever they please.  I suppose that seems appropriate though since we did just endure the ridiculousness of basing our weather predictions on the inclinations of a large rodent.  I can’t even understand how we know what this fuzzy fellow even “says” much less why we are asking his thoughts on whether or not the seasons are progressing in the first place.  Not to mention each area has its own creature of choice that they use for predictions and they don’t even all agree.  I don’t know if you can read the tone with which I am typing this but my face currently is really telling the tale.  But all in all, I suppose the weather doing a little bit of everything goes right along with what one should expect if one depends on multiple disagreeing woodland animals to predict it.  What should I call this season, is it winter still? Sometimes.  Is it feeling springlike sometimes? Also, yes.  It sounds like the rodents might have pretty good odds on being correct come to think of it.

The robins in my area certainly have wholeheartedly embraced that they think it is spring.  Not only are they out in flocks that are downright disconcerting in size, but they are so, shall we say, well fed. Now, in stereotypical fashion I envision the American Robin eating worms. I think they do in fact eat other things as well, but either way, I don’t know if we have lots of high quality worms in my area but my stars are these fat little things. I cannot count the times I’ve seen grassy expanses covered in little red breasted balls of feathers.  They are so rotund they literally seem to be spheres. And this seems to be every time I see these particular birds, they all look as though they just left a buffet. Since they are a usual sign of spring, I assume their large (in more ways than one) presence should be a harbinger of sorts. But of course, contrary to what the Groundhog Day crowd would have you believe, the seasons do not in fact listen to local wildlife and their opinions on climate.

The daffodils do not seem to be as convinced of spring as the bird population. The most common place to see explosions of buttery color is in old home places. There is nothing that says springtime quite as much as a ring of old pecans or oaks that once surrounded a home long since gone.  Those are the places that you see veritable sunbursts of yellow scattered amongst the perimeter of ancient trees.  They haven’t completely vetoed the idea of the coming season; they just don’t seem overly inspired to participate.  Often at this time of year I have seen plots of nothing but herbal sunshine as far as the eye can see. Thus far this year, there are only dappled specks of brightness.  The blossoms seem unconvinced that they need to really put forth their full effort.  I wonder if I should assume they are in some sort of strange nature cahoots with the groundhogs on an attempt to exemplify the unreliability of their predictions.  I know even my mother’s very lovingly planted bulbs have yet to produce this year.  Are they toying with us, or should we anticipate a late season blizzard? Stranger things have happened.

As a person who is anal retentive enough to check the weather far in advance and how it pertains to upcoming events in my life, I happen to know that on into the next week it is going to get abnormally warm here.  Actually, I don’t know if it is abnormal per se, since it is, as I mentioned, possible for pretty much anything to go on this time of year.  But next week it is going to be downright warm.  So I suppose the mercury in the thermometer itself (do our thermometers even have mercury in them anymore) is embracing a season change with gusto.  I am not a particularly huge fan of this because I tend to like it cooler since our never-ending summer and all its oppressively hot glory will be here soon enough.   But then again, it’s rather brisk currently as I am typing this and will be below freezing tonight. Have I mentioned the purely willy-nilly nature of things right now?  Today has been thoroughly winter-esque.  By the middle of next week, we’ll be well into late spring as far as temperatures go and the possibility of winter returning shortly thereafter is down to a coin toss.

I feel it is an understandable place for me to be in that I cannot exactly decide what to call this time of year.  We’re celebrating love and rodents, not in that order.  The weather is mixed bag of frost and sunshine. Birds are overzealous and flowers are under performing.  But let me assure you that none of this is particularly surprising, just hard to pin down.  Should we call it Winting? Perhaps Sprinter?  I suppose if you’ve been around, you know it’s simply, that time of year. And to tweak an old adage, a daffodil by any other name…is just as random.