March is what you might call a temperamental month, giving ample proof to the old chestnut that if you don’t like the weather in Maine, just wait a bit, and it will change. Yesterday morning, when I went out to get the mail, the weather was so mild and warm I decided that after lunch, I would poke around the yard, doing bits of clean-up. But the weather had other plans—thunder and rain. No yard work for me.
Last night, as Clif and I were watching Bosch, we heard a rapid patter against the house. Clif paused the show—we were watching it on Amazon Prime—and “That sounds like hail,” I said. This morning when I looked outside, my suspicions were confirmed when I saw little ice balls scattered on the leaves around my garden.
The weather forecast for the next few days? More thunder and rain, and then the prediction that every Mainer dreads but expects this time of year—a major snowstorm on Sunday that will go into Monday. If we do get this storm, I can almost guarantee that the snow will be wet and heavy, and the possibility of a power outage rears its ugly head.
Ah, well. Our shovels are at the ready, and Clif will bring in some wood. I’ll be sure to fill my big pots with water because at the little house in the big woods, no power means no water. (We have a well.) And on Sunday, maybe I’ll make turkey soup and some biscuits. Then, if the snow comes we’ll have a big batch of comfort to get us through the storm.
In the meantime, I’ll listen to the male cardinal singing his spring song. Perhaps the dog and I will take a walk up the road to check if the pussy willows are in bloom. I’ll also check on the little swamp to see if the ice is out. If there is no ice, then the peepers will soon be singing their spring song, and this always lifts the spirits.
But snow, snow, stay away. Don’t come back until next winter.