My father used to say, "A sunny day doesn't make a summer." To take that literally, might I add it doesn't make a spring either?
Warmer temperatures these days don't fool me. It's around this time of year that I am reminded of a young man that used to rent our attic back in the days when my then-husband and I were newlyweds and in need of offsetting the mortgage. Living in a large house in a Ivy League college town with a teaching hospital, we found no shortage of nice, brainy grad and medical students who wanted a little space in a quiet, safe neighborhood to dump their belongings. One of these young men was from Florida.
After suffering through his first New England winter, he was more than ready to chuck his parka, don some shorts and ride to school on his bicycle. It was mid-March when the first tease of Spring erupted in unseasonably warm balmy breezes. Against all of my warnings, confident that he knew best and I was off my nut, he aired out his room by throwing open the windows and did a massive Spring cleaning. He packed away his down comforter, warm boots and heavy coat and fleeces. Tossing on his riding shorts and helmet, he lit off to school with sunshine on his back, assured that Spring had arrived.
I felt sorry for him two days later, when the temperatures plunged back into the 30s and snow fell on Easter. Pride wouldn't allow him to admit he was freezing. Allowing him that, I left a few extra blankets at the attic door.
Moral of the story? Reread the opening sentence.
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