I’m as much a booster of the North Country as any guy you’re gonna meet–a lifer. It’s a beautiful place and I live in a beautiful part of it, halfway between the river and the mountains, on a country road but not too far from town. Winter is spectacular, summer is succulent, fall is sublime. But early spring? Somebody has smacked this land with the ugly stick. The snow cover is mostly gone, but the greening has yet to begin. Welcome to Mudville.
It’s like when you’ve been sick in bed for a few days and stagger to the bathroom for a glass of water. There’s your shocking face in the mirror–stubble, bed hair so bad it could be performance art, red pillow creases striping one cheek, puffy grey eyebags, and every pore a little manhole down into your weary soul. Yikes. My yard looks like one of those Belgian villages caught between the trench lines in WWI.
I know it’ll pass; either the snow will return and bandage the wounds, or new life will start to green up the debris. But in the meantime, we’re just stuck with it. Listen to the geese complaining overhead. They know what I’m talking about.