an open letter

Dear Winter:

It's time you know my true feelings. I can no longer hide them under the guise of being a hearty Minnesotan.

Here's how I see it: you show up at the end of every fall, all Currier and Ives, charming and quiet and gentle. You gently coat the world around me with white marshmallow-fluff snowcaps. You charm me with sleigh bells and warm evenings nestled inside under a blanket with hot drinks and merrymaking.

You even lure me out into your icy grasp for New Years Eve. Every year, you sweet-talk me into thinking this year will be different. You'll be mild. You'll let me wear high heels all season long. You'll let me get away with a flimsy coat and no hat.

And then you pull a Jekyll and Hyde on me. You turn to ice. You make the world blustery and dark. I lose all hope, as bitingly dim mornings and bitter cold nights fall into one another til it seems my toes will never thaw and I'll never again jog around the lake. I languish in my home, with starchy dinners and TV reruns, wistfully remembering the girl who roamed outside freely oh-so long ago.

Then, when all hope seems lost, you disappear. One morning, I wake up and you have packed your bags and left for another town. My dear friend Spring calls, and suddenly the birds are singing, the snow races away in melting streams, and my outdoor world is alive. Taking the bus doesn't seem like as much of a punishment, as it does a gift. I consider the herbs I will grow, filling bike tires with air, and the location of my long white skirt. I jog. I laugh. I play. I am again alive.

Until you show up on my doorstep, howling once again. You are still cold, still bitter, still vicious... made even more prominent by the recent respite from your constant barrage. Well, Winter... I'm sick of it, and I am sick of you. I don't like the way you treat me. Your inability to give me any sort of consistency is maddening. You overstay your welcome, and return to me when I least expect it.

I guess what I'm trying to say, Winter, is that we shouldn't see each other any more. I think you need to leave. In fact, I'm over you. I think my friend Spring and I are ready to just hang out for a while, and your imposing presence is getting in our way.

Do us all a favor and get out of town, would ya? You're no good for me, anymore.

Sarah

fair and balanced: two sides to every story

Good morning! It's Thursday, it's March in Minneapolis, and we're in the flux of another snowstorm. In like a lion, baby.

Things currently making me :)

• The Twins tying Boston in their opening spring training game. OK, tying doesn't actually make me happy. Ties are unbaseballian. Almost unamerican. But spring training is in full swing, which means spring itself (and a baseball season I get all antsy about every time I think about it) is nearly here.
• A darling, poppy, punky scottish outfit called The View. I just listened to Hats Off to the Buskers. The whole thing was energetic, frenetic, britpop deliciousness. I love having the music hookup, and I love knowing people who know and love music.
• A haircut and brow wax this evening.
• Tasty, thrifty dinner goodness thanks to Athens Cafe.
• Mad sewing and 3red-season-Buffy-viewing post-preschool-storytime tonight.
• Musical evening,including wine, chocolate, and Caffrey's sammiches, with the ever-wonderful Jana tomorrow night.
• Getting past page 200 in the Jest.
• Having my stepmom call to rave about David Sedaris. I'm totally bringing her the entire set when we go up for Easter.
• Planning East Coast roadtrips.

Things currently making me :(

• Another foot of snow.
• The inability for my crappy upstairs neighbor to move his scary-kidnapper-van, thus making it nearly impossible for me to ease out of my parking spot.
• Let's be real: my crappy upstairs neighbor, in general. Why hasn't he moved out/been evicted yet?
• Only being at page 200 in the Jest.
• Meat that prematurely expires and thus stinks up your entire fridge.
• Laundry that seems to procreate on its own time.
• Unnecessary, yet seemingly unavoidable, conflict.
• A never-ending to-do list.
• The last big push of homework for school. I know it will all be over soon, but there is so very much to get done before I walk in that graduation ceremony...
• 5 more months of a strange commute from my place in Linden Hills to preschool in Golden Valley to downtown for work, and back again. Doesn't make any sense to move Paige into preschool til we find a place in Northeast to put our roots down in, but still.

I tried to remember, but I said what's a flower?

...and then the snow came
we were always out shoveling
and we dropped to sleep exhausted
and we'd wake up
and it's snowing...

(Dar Williams, February, from Mortal City)

The whole city seems braced today. It's gray and windy, and depending on who you listen to, there are 8-18 inches of snow on the way. We are Minnesotans and should be able to handle this; however, we have been spoiled with little snowfall and mild temperatures and have lost our semi-arctic robustness. St. Thomas is all prepared to call off my class tomorrow; people are raiding grocery stores (we live in a large city with expensive plows and a backstock of road salt, people. this too shall pass), canceling parties, going home early, catching planes to California. OK, maybe that was just one coworker, and maybe it was a vacation he's had planned for a while.

Meanwhile, I embrace the thought of snow, in my silly Minnesotan way, the way I embrace the thought of a challenging assignment or an uphill climb on the Schwinn (though I won't be doing any uphill climbs on said Schwinn in 18 inches of white stuff). It's a good excuse to bundle in, make use of Netflix and the TV Torrents I haven't watched. It's a great reason to explore my spaetzle-making skill, for turkey-spaetzle soup. A spectacular excuse to bake bread, cookies, possibly brownies. And snuggle under big blankets. And sleep in. And drink warm cider laced with Jameson.

Bring it, old man Winter.

white christmas

Garrison Keillor, sometimes you and I agree. And sometimes you and I do not.
But I always agree with you on being Minnesotan.

I dream of a white Christmas, to be perfectly honest. As I write this, it is mid-December, my lawn in St. Paul is green, the streets are dusty, the sky is blue, there is a mention of snow flurries in the forecast, and by the time you read this, we may be swathed in snowdrifts, windowpanes frosted, trees flocked with white, the classic designer Christmas. But we Midwesterners are brought up to expect the worst, and so I anticipate that we will get rain on Dec. 24 and will walk to church under umbrellas and sing "O Little Town of Bethlehem" in a sanctuary smelling of pine boughs and wet wool.
It's Minnesota. We should have enormous drifts, requiring the Border Patrol to take to their skis to patrol the Boundary Waters wilderness and keep Canadian frostbacks from sliding down with their toboggans full of cheap pharmaceuticals. This is what we're here for, to keep the rapacious Canuck at bay despite heavy snows.
When people ask you where you're from and you say Minnesota, they don't say, "Oh, I loved the Minnesota Orchestra's recent recording of Beethoven symphonies" or "Robert Bly changed my life." No, they say, "It gets cold there, doesn't it?"

Yes. Yes. A thousand times, yes.