“You won’t believe it got up to 60 degrees here today,” my dad told me last night when I called to make drop off and pick up plans for the kids’ spring break. “Yesterday, we couldn’t see over the mound of snow at the end of our drive. Now, it’s down to about three feet, and we can see to back out. But it’s probably in the 80s or something down there.”
“Actually,” I said, both reluctant to confirm it and eager to rub it in, “We hit 80 at about five-o-clock.”
“Geez,” he sighed, “that figures.”
I am wearing short sleeves to campus for the second day, and I was giddy to wear shorts for the first time this season on a long run with my friend David this weekend, enjoying the wind on my legs.
One March when I was in college in Madison, Wisconsin, the temperatures reached the upper 50s and melted the snow. My friend, Mike, and I went to sit on the student union terrace to drink beer in large paper cups and play guitar in our shorts and t-shirts. It seemed a radical way to celebrate the brief break in the cold, especially when temperatures dropped and it snowed again before Easter.
Yesterday, in the office, we laughed that it takes a while to get used to a new place. When I first moved to Louisville, I was perturbed by what seemed like very slow service at local businesses.
I’d pull up to the checkout at the local grocery with a pair of two-year-olds in tow, and it’d seem like forever before I’d get checked out, because the cashier would want a full run down on what it’s like to raise twins. “Oh, are they twins? How do you tell them apart? Well, God Bless you. I always thought I wanted twins, but when I had just one baby–well, that was enough.”
“Why can’t you just check me out?” I’d grumble in my head and entertain Evan with a loose set of keys.
Today, I actually look forward to these exchanges. I go out of my way to visit businesses I know to be friendly. Sometimes, I even smile.
As I cruised through the asphalt octopus that locals call Spaghetti Junction on my commute into campus this morning, I passed a bank of roadside I know to show the first color of spring. I didn’t have to look too close to see the emerging yellow of daffodils, faces turned to the sunshine. Next week, floral gold will gild the whole area.
It’s raining hard now, thunder cracking outside, students dashing to the dorm across the way, and finding themselves soaked in spite of all their effort. The sound excites me. It tells me, step away from the keyboard, life is happening outside.
I am ready to pack the house and move at any moment, but I am very comfortable in the warm and easy Ohio Valley. I may just let some junk accumulate in the basement and put the boxes in the recycling.
I’ve grown accustomed to this place.