The winds of change

“A southern wind smells like spring,” Molly announced as we strolled through the woods on an unseasonably warm Sunday.

So, we all stood still and took a good, deep breath.

“Huh!” I said. “It does! How poetic. Where did you learn that?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I just think it does.”

Less than 24 hours later, two of us from that happy little party of spring sniffers battled a north wind so stiff and cold it froze our faces as we trudge/sprinted across the College Avenue bridge.

“The north wind smells like the inside of my parka hood,” I thought as I desperately clutched it around my head.

We’re more familiar than most with the winds of change here in the Midwest, where we can be hooping it up in our driveways on a Sunday afternoon, and battling a windy ice storm two days later.

Most days, that makes us resilient. Some days, it makes us cranky.

Yesterday I felt a little of both.

Sometimes, those winds of change whip up without warning and they kind of take your breath away. Then, in their aftermath, when things settle down a little and you rub your eyes clear, the world makes sense again.

I felt a little of that in the past few days as well.

These dog days of winter can be a conundrum. For instance, I really don’t like scraping ice of the windshield of my car. I don’t like the noise it makes, I don’t like the way I can’t feel my fingers while I’m gripping the scraper because I always leave my mittens in the car, I don’t like the time it takes when I’ve forgotten to factor it in.

But, I do like ice skating.

So, there’s that.

Twenty-five days until spring.