Yes, I’m sure
Getting ready to go outside is a rather involved process these days. Make sure to put on long underwear or tights underneath pants. On with the hiking shoes (because they’re warmer than my workhorse Munros, and in Wisconsin, nobody minds if you wear hiking shoes to work). On with the YakTrax, one at a time, tug-tug-TUG-tug-tug and slap the Velcro on and it’s done. On with the heavy down coat; the poor old thing’s zipper is shot, so I have to use the snaps. On with the goofy hat, snap it under the chin. On with the gloves. Up with the coat hood. Now I’m ready.
It’s funny to do all that, walk outside, and hear a cardinal’s whistle piercing the neighborhood. This morning, I distinctly heard a couple of finches going on with their tripping, uneven song, and caught a glimpse of one sitting at the very tip-top of a tall, snow-laden spruce. Obviously they know something that my civilization-dulled instincts don’t: spring is coming. Slowly, but it’s coming.
These days my walk to work is timed such that the sun is just heaving over the southeast horizon, tinting all the buildings across the bay rose-gold. Cold or no cold (and it wasn’t bad today), wind or no wind (and there wasn’t any today), that’s just beautiful.
It’s a rough winter. I’ve spent a full third of my winters in this place, and I don’t ever remember one this bad, either for cold or snow. It’s as though Wisconsin is pitching its most vicious curveball, standing back afterwards with a sly, lazy smile that asks, “Are you sure you want to live here? Really sure? Positive?”
Yes. Yes, I’m sure.