Here in Kentucky, we’re used to the annual spring teases that come in February–and sometimes as early as January. This winter, the teases have been many, and, as usual, I’ve been able to acknowledge with both my mind and heart that each burst of warm weather–dandelions and daffodils included–really is just a tease. There’s always one period of warmth and sunshine, though, that has the effect of a virus, imbeds itself, and sets off true Spring Fever. That happened to me about ten days ago, and now, in spite of the intervening week of snow, sleet, and temperatures in the teens, I am definitely suffering Spring Fever–Writer’s Style. For me, this means a passionate longing to get busy with yard work–not because I love yard work (I don’t), but because when I do things like digging in the dirt or cutting grass (especially cutting grass!) my subconscious works out seemingly insurmountable writing problems.
I wish I could say the same for housework, but, alas, no.