Spring is easy to love. All you have to do is mention the basics — flowers, new life — and you’re halfway to a poem. And fall’s publicist has convinced us that to dress in mudroom-chic attire and take a yellow lab apple-picking is the world’s greatest joy.
But winter, especially the days of late February and early March, is tougher. The season starts out quaint — holidays and hot cocoa — but ends as a yearly reminder that the planet doesn’t care if we die. I start tossing salt on ice like it’s my enemies’ land. By late January I curse Thomas Kinkade paintings, with their horse-drawn sleighs that never have to circle the block for parking.
Skiing saves some. Others go insane and pretend snowshoeing isn’t just walking. I feel for them. We all need something to transform our winter dread into excitement.