Winter-wary or worse

I spotted a robin Monday.

I was taking the dog for his morning constitutional and noticed the early bird soaking up the sun in what, with the serious onslaught of spring, will become my front lawn. At the time I  paid little more attention than the pup to this traditional harbinger of the pending equinox. Among my friends and acquaintances, it’s the migration of the snowbirds rather than the red birds that signal the changing of the seasons.

But if Mr. Redbreast is making his way north, I imagine my sunburned buddies will soon be toddling along in his wake, tracking the north star from their wintertime perch in Florida, Arizona of the subtropical parts of Texas. It will be good to see them again, but, I’ll be darned if I can really understand why they left in the first place.

Ok, ok … I get it. After better than six decades of life at this latitude I’ve noticed the seasonal accumulation of ice, snow and slush. I’m well aware that anytime from November until April an alteration of atmospheric dynamics may quickly turn the environment deadly to all manner of mammalian life – ourselves most definitely included. I suppose the anticipation of hypothermic temperatures, cardiac-inducing snowfalls, and the potential osteopathology inherent in combining glare ice and gravity may induce some to migrate to climes where lawn mowing is not a seasonal activity. But I stay put.

No, I’m not into suffering for suffering’s sake, not do I claim to be enraptured by the glorious cavalcade of the changing seasons. Nah, I’m just too lazy to move. By my estimate the pleasure of walking out in shirtsleeves and a windbreaker as opposed to pulling on a parka and mukluks wouldn’t offset the seasonal nuisance of packing, unpacking, settling, unsettling, repacking and unpacking all over again. Not only that there’d be mail to be hassled with, a new bed to get used to and week after week without a Bloedow’s doughnut.

Besides, as far as winter goes, I figure I’ve got it good right here.

Now I do realize I speak from a highly privileged position. Age and the benefits of creeping socialism have allowed me to forgo the daily commute. My daily routine is my own and unlike the postal service, I’m quite willing to allow snow or sleet or gloom of night to stay this fellow from his appointed rounds.

In other words, if there’s more winter outside than I care to deal with, I don’t go outside. With a well-stocked larder, a wall full of books, Netflix, Google and a well-tuned furnace that’s a lot closer to heaven than hardship.

And a heck of a lot easier than driving 1,600 miles to Tucson.

Not only that, winter in these parts does have its charms – admittedly, that’s a lot easier to say now that this particular winter is reasonably near to being over. Still, would Tom & Jerry’s ever taste so good without December and January? Subzero windchills are marvelously effective in bringing down the mosquito population and bundled up as we are we’d be pretty much impervious to them even if they were to survive.

Toasting your toes next to a roaring fire is so much nicer than sweating in front of a howling air conditioner, and most of us look better in a parka than a swim suit – especially after six months of chili, chowder and melted cheese on everything. 

Still, spring is coming – although I do expect that early-arriving robin will have some serious shivering to do before he gets his first worm. Yet, there are a couple of tentative tulips poking up where snow laid a week ago and, no doubt, will lay again before they burst into full bloom.

Yup, spring is about to spring. Too bad my winter-wary neighbors aren’t here to enjoy it.