The calendar says that spring is here. Judging by the twinge in my low-back from wielding a snow shovel, Mother Nature, Old Man Winter, Willard Scott…or whomever is responsible, can’t read, or simply doesn’t care what our silly Gregorian calendar and my creaky low-back have to say.

Thankfully, my good friend, Dr. St Patrick, is more reliable than the previously mentioned trio, and made a house call with a prescription strength bottle of magical leprechaun elixir to ease the various twinges and twangs that have bewitched my snow moving muscles. Thanks to the city snowplow, those snow moving muscles got to move some of the same snow twice. So it goes.

I’m not complaining about having our street plowed, there’s enough people in town that relish kicking that dead horse every time it snows. For the record, kicking a dead horse isn’t nice, nor is it an efficient use of a kick.

If I were a snowplow operator, I believe I would take great delight in seeing the expression of the guy drinking coffee on the warm side of the picture window as I left wall of snow between his freshly shoveled driveway and the street. I’d give a little wave and a honk, and use the opportunity to work on my lip reading skills.

Maybe mister snowplow operator is misunderstood, maybe he’s trying to protect me with that wall of snow? Protect us from whoever is trying to get into our yard and take our snow and the half buried garden gnome. Willard Scott dressed as Ronald McDonald perhaps? Never trust a clown, especially one that smells of rancid vegetable oil and finely chopped onion.

Sure, he could just wait for me to get distracted by the hypnotic buzz of the electric foot file grinding away at the mountain of calluses my interpretive dance class has saddled me with, and climb over the wall of snow, but who would ever think of climbing over a wall? Especially in clown shoes.

So, mister snowplow operator thank you. Thank you for protecting my family, our snow, our gnome, and our right to live clown free in the land of the brave. How do I know that mister snowplow operator is in fact a “mister”? I don’t. It is a wild assumption based off of the inordinate amount of knuckle hair on the finger that was waved in my direction when the before mentioned wall of snow was hastily constructed.

The calendar says that spring is here, it says St. Patrick’s day has passed, it says birthdays of loved ones have come and gone. Some of those loved ones have gone as well, but the day we held special for them for so many years will continue to be as such. It was their day then, so it only makes sense that it would remain so now.

Now…while we’re still here with the memory of all that their lives meant to us. Now is a long ways from then, but forward we must go. Spring is here again.