Last snow?

For me, there are few weather events in early spring harder to contend with in terms of morale than the last snow.

Last night, we had to enter my beautiful hanging basket of violas (albeit a little less spectacular now since being munched on by deer after being left overnight on an outside table) because the temperature dropped to the low 20s. Today, my husband brought in the two trays of pansies and put them in his closet (away from salad-bar-loving Darwin and pansy-addicted Magellan) because they had drooped markedly overnight. That was after I covered each of them with a pillow case as protection from the frost, but they were just not doing well in the 30-degree, sun-less weather outside.

Today, it's been flurrying and outright snowing, on and off, the skies have been gray and dismal-looking, and the little bit of color that you can find anywhere is fighting for dear life, like the spring flowers near our apartment that hunkered down against the snow.

Yesterday, I was briefly interviewed for the college faculty newsletter and the interviewer, an erstwhile reporter for the major newspaper in the big city, asked me what was the main difference between San Juan, Puerto Rico, and Gambier, Ohio. I had to laugh out loud at the contrast that came to my mind with his question, and I immediately answered: "Color." And I meant that in more ways than one.

I've noted before how my mother-in-law once told me, when I was still a newbie in Ohio and all bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed with possibility, that I would eventually find its winters almost unbearably gray. She herself suffers from light deprivation and must actively counteract its effects during the long, dreary months of winter and early spring. Back then, I dismissed her words, younger and foolisher as I was, sure that I certainly would not find Ohio as objectionable as she did over something as silly as the weather.

But among the major lessons the Greeks taught us was that hubris is not a good thing to have, and that the Fates will make sure it is repaid in humbleness. I have been duly humbled again and again each of the eight years we've been in Ohio, and am now among those who bemoan these last days of colorless cold that linger on before spring is fully with us.

I even started wondering what it would be like to live and work in California until my husband reminded me of how far we'd be from Puerto Rico, and how that has been the reason why we've never considered the West Coast as a possibility, even when it would've been easier for my husband to get a job at one of the many motorcycle magazines published there.

While California is not an option at this time, I have had to come to terms with several facts. One of them is that I am almost 50 (I'll be 48 in October), and that aging does bring important changes that required adaptation. I've discovered, for one, that I need a lot more sleep nowadays than I did even a few years ago, and if I get to bed after 11 and get up at 7 (when I must to give Geni her insulin shot), I'm tired and cranky for the entire day.

That means that I must make sure I get to bed at a time that allows me to function productively and happily, something that has turned out to be much more difficult than I thought in a place where there is something to do or attend to practically every minute of the day and night.

The other fact is that I find the often-unremittingly ugly weather in Ohio to be hard to bear, and that I'll have to ponder the effects of that on my psyche in years to come, as I grow older and more needy of color. Today, a much younger friend and colleague, in a conversation with students over lunch, explained how, in re-reading Beloved while now living through Ohio winters, she has finally understood Baby Suggs' hunger for color.

On my part, I do so hope that this was the last snow of the season, as my husband titled these photos that he took today. Like Beloved, my Caribbean soul clamors, if not for a kiss, then most definitely for color.