The Weather in Between

There’s winter, and there’s spring. Then there’s whatever is in between–something I like to call The Lying Season. It’s when the sun comes out just long enough to convince you you’re splitting wood no more, and then come morning, you’re waking to sleet slapping your kitchen window like a used car salesman trying to sell you the jalopy you just got rid of.

I reckon my body’s as honest a barometer as any. The joints in my hands, particularly the knuckles on the right, sing out like a choir of rusted screen doors whenever a cold front’s considering dropping in. My lower back–courtesy of two breaks—gets twisted up like barbed wire anytime the air pressure shifts. It’s like my personal Doppler radar, except it doesn’t beep or flash–it just hurts.

Now, I can handle a solid winter. Give me a clear-cut season with snow stacked like birthday cakes on the fenceposts, and I’ll dress for it, fire the stove, and make peace with the ache.

Springtime, I can prepare for too–mud, frogs hollering in the ditch, and every blade of grass trying to outgrow the other. What I can’t get used to is the in-between curse.

Yesterday was a prime example. I stepped outside in the morning, warm enough to ditch the long johns. Birds were chirping, my neighbor’s rooster was already crowing like he was running for mayor, and the air had that hopeful smell to it–like wet dirt and green things just thinking about poking through. By lunch, I’d hung up my coat, put on a light flannel, and thought about airing out the camper.

By three o’clock, the wind kicked up outta nowhere, dropped the temperature fifteen degrees, and drove a curtain of hail sideways across the pasture like a gang of angry marbles. I watched my laundry—yes, foolishly hung on the line–turn into ice flags, flapping stiffly in the wind like frozen surrender.

Even the free-range horses are no help this time of year. During the in-between weeks, they’re as moody as the sky. They swish their tails like summer’s here, then hunker like they’re expecting a blizzard.

I’ve realized–slowly, painfully, and after many failed attempts to guess the weather based on how much I’m limping–that this season is like life–unpredictable, messy, and best approached with humor and a good hat. You can holler about it, keep a coat by the door, aspirin in the drawer, and laugh when your socks freeze stiff on the clothesline.

Eventually, spring will settle in for real. The frogs will keep croaking past sunset, the grass will need mowing twice a week, and my joints will ease up just enough to make me forget how mad I got at the weather in between. Until next year, of course.

But that’s just how it goes. So, I make peace with the pain, bet against the sky, and watch the horses–even if they don’t know what in the hail they’re doing.