This is it. The final stretch. Only days before Easter. And still, it snows.
I know I've said it before, but I live in Georgia. It's supposed to be warm in Georgia. Hot even. I remember reading all about it when I was a kid, living in the frozen tundra of upstate New York, trudging through snow nearly up to my waist. Georgia has short winters, long summers, lazy days filled with lemonade and sweet tea...mint juleps and grits. Not snow in late March. Not frozen temperatures just days before Easter.
I was wrong. The Farmer's Almanac was wrong. It's freaking cold here, and I'm seriously thinking about getting a refund. Not that I love the hot summers...I don't. I long for cool breezes from June through September, but right now, I'd take a heatwave and be thankful for it, if only to avoid sleeping in wool socks and my cashmere scarf for one night.
Now, I'd like blame the groundhog and his misguided predictions, but as I was recently reminded, he's merely a captive prophet. (Ray Plasse, 2013) He likely wants no part in this circus he's forced to perform in each year. So if not the groundhog, who do I blame? The local weather man? No, he simply reports the weather, he doesn't predict it. Can I blame the pigs? I'd really like to find something new to blame the pigs for, but alas...pigs have no bearing on the weather. So where does that leave me? Right here, freezing my ass off in my 90-year-old farmhouse with crappy wiring, no insulation, and leaky windows...praying for spring to arrive with a vengeance. But my prayers have yet to be answered.
Now I'm left with only one wisp of a hope. The Easter Bunny. He brings joy, pastel colors, chocolate, and hopefully, this year, he'll bring warm weather. Because seriously, I was so cold yesterday, I forgot to blog. And that just can't happen. Hey, maybe if I'm lucky, Peter Rabbit will bring me a few packages of Thin Mints when he comes. Can't hurt to ask, right?
Until the next time...I'll be waiting for a basket filled with sunshine.