Forty years and flowers

My first blogpost looked forward to spring, and our fortieth anniversary, and the voice of the turtledove being heard in the land.

Reasonable expectations for the end of March, unless you live in the Midwest. I must have forgotten that. And this year, winter in Chicagoland has been exceptionally long and bleak. A sales associate at an Eddie Bauer store said to me, "We're having a hard time selling spring clothes. People are just too cold to think about them."

The dogs stand at the window by the front door, mournfully remembering when they used to go for walks.

Friends say, "I don't know why I feel so tired all the time."

We were going to celebrate our anniversary locally, but how is that possible when winter refuses to leave?

So, ever optimistic, we headed for a part of the country known for its gray skies and heavy rainfall. The state my mother escaped from sixty years ago, moving to Southern California in search of sunshine. "You came here to get away from Chicago?" said a bookstore employee yesterday, disbelieving. "Why?"

The pictures show why. It's nippy here, and it rains part of every day. But spring has arrived.

The flowers appear on the earth;
the time of the singing of birds is come,
and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

The fig tree putteth forth her green figs,
and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.
Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

Song of Songs 2.12-13

Far away from Chicago.