Spring in New Hampshire brings with it a bout of selective amnesia, like a mother’s inability to conjure the pain of birth after she gazes into the eyes of her child. So joyed are we that we simply survived the trial once again, we forget the threats of southern migration, never spending another winter in this godforsaken place, of quitting. Period. Once the exquisite torture of 30 below gives way to blue skies and warm breezes, we seem to forget that we couldn’t go outside for a month without fear of freezing to death in the walk between the house and car. As soon as we see the ice break from the river, we can no longer remember the long hours spent under the house thawing frozen pipes, swearing that we will remember to buy new heat tape every fall, even if the old one still seems to be working. Budding trees, chartreuse leaves poking up through brown grass, and fresh mud wipe from our eyes the desaturation of fall, that bleak black and white season that reminds us why the ancient Irish marked October 31st as New Year’s eve, the barren period, a night for ghosts.
Faces that haven’t seen sun in six months turn flush and ruddy, arms itch with the need to work. With the first warm weekend, we harken back to the hive mentality, venturing out en masse, scrubbing and clearing the rubble, eliminating the evidence of snow banks, ice storms, and winter malaise, yelling to the neighbor across the road, “Great weather, we having, huh? Nah, winter wasn’t so bad.”
