counting the hours

The vernal equinox arrives on our farm (and elsewhere in the Pacific Time Zone) at 2:01 a.m. tomorrow, and I might well stay up that late just to make sure winter hauls its sorry ass away punctually. It’s not going out without making some noise. It’s cold and raining, and — although I know way deep down that any precipitation is to be appreciated — this particular installment is merely pissing me off.

Usually by now March has graciously given us at least a few warm or warmish days. Not this year. So far. The month still has 12 days to make it right, though. Certainly my frustration stems from rigid thinking, something I shoulda/coulda figured out after 78+ years. Even Scarlett O’Hara had an “Aha!” moment, but she had to puke up a turnip first.

Such a day invites extremes. I posted a message on the Vietnam Veterans Virtual Wall to Eddie Weekfall, a Marine boot camp buddy killed taking out an enemy machine gun emplacement. He was a Black man, tough and brave, from the mean streets of East St. Louis who died pointlessly. The precise opposite of Bone Spurs Trump.

I’m gonna go watch some Diana Krall videos.