Dyeing the river green in Chicago for St. Patrick's Day. I was quite thrilled.

Weather

This blog might be getting a little photo-heavy, but I have a digital camera now and want to take pictures all the time. Everybody likes pictures anyway.

Today I realized something: I actually enjoy talking about the weather. Perhaps it's in my genes as an Iowan, or maybe people in all states like to talk weather, but I'm fascinated by the conditions outside. This morning while waiting for the bus, I talked weather with this guy who also waits for the bus. We generally always discuss the temperature since we have to stand outside, by the highway no less, for five minutes each morning. (An aside about why I hate standing by the highway: First, the cars and trucks whiz by at 60 mph and sometimes kick up a lot of dust that blows on me. Second, the trucks honk at me. Third, it's just kind of ugly there. But, on the plus side, an orange cat lives in the ditch by the highway and I watch it sometimes.)

In the spring, each day's weather is exciting and different, so there is plenty to talk about. Today it was windy and cold. Yesterday it was nice and warm. Tomorrow it might be snowing. I think the bus stop guy likes weather, too, because he spoke with real amazement about it being cold today. That's the key you know. You have to believe that constantly commenting on the weather will force it to change. I also believe that if I check the forecast on the Weather Channel online enough times, it will get better, i.e. warmer.

Spring break is over, so it is officially the time when Laura gets spring fever. It affects me quite badly. I start to daydream about eating Tropical Snow and and getting my hair cut.

It Might as Well be Spring--Seriously, why wait?

Sunday it was spring. Actually, it was the first day of spring. It was 70 degrees; the sun shone bright and warmed my skin. A light breeze stirred the brittle grasses that lay in wait for the new to sprout up and displace them. But on Monday it was winter again. The high was 38 degrees and gobs of slush fell from the sky, as if some terrible giantess kept blowing her nose, farmer style, toward the earth. I have never seen a farmer doing this, though no doubt some of them do. What would you do alone in a field, miles from the nearest tissue? But the point is, it was miserable on Monday, and the splendor of Sunday made the cold that much more unbearable. You see, in Iowa there are many first days of spring every year. They generally start in March and continue until June, when spring finally comes at last and ceases to taunt us like a child showing a cat a tasty bit of hotdog, then whipping it behind his back.

So, in protest of this delay, I've decided to behave as if spring has come in earnest. I painted my fingernails pink and, tomorrow, I plan on wearing a pink top. I refuse to wear my winter coat any longer. I plan on buying an ice cream tomorrow and eating it as I wait for the bus. If necessary, I will eat it in the snow. I will eat it just for show. I will not rest till winter leaves. For spring is here, if you believe.

The inside of my grandparents' barn. Very old--about 100 years.