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Fool’s Spring

They call it “Fool’s Spring.” Deep down I know it won’t last, but when it arrives every year, I’m the biggest fool for it.

Fool’s Spring lulls the mind into thinking that the current warm-weather change will last. You feel a sense of relief. The cold and hardship of winter are over and you’re on your way to delightful spring with its flowers, green grass, and the putting away of shovels.

That’s where the “fool” part of Fool’s Spring comes in. Winter isn’t over by any stretch. It will be back with a frosty bite and that shovel better stay put on the porch because it will be used again. And again. And probably again after that.

When I get home from work the day Fool’s Spring arrives, I go for a walk. How long has it been since I took a simple walk? The answer is: a shamefully long time. In the dark and cold of winter, I camp out on the couch with a book instead of doing any type of exercise. Lately I’ve been reading about an ill-fated Mount Everest climbing expedition. I read about climbing Mount Everest because I’m too chicken mentally and too unfit physically to ever attempt it. I’m fascinated by people who would subject themselves to that kind of mental and physical torture. I think they’re brave but also crazy.

Fool’s Spring lasts for about a day and a half.

When I come home from work the next evening, the ice and frigid temperatures are back. I have to navigate a steep set of stairs to reach my door. They are my Everest, and it can be an ordeal to ascend them. I hold the rail and step carefully so I don’t slide off. I practically need a Sherpa guide to make sure I get to the top safely.

Fool’s Spring is an even more distant memory by the next morning. An ice storm is in full bloom, and I can hear the frozen pellets of precipitation as they land on my stairs. When things seem to be over, I decide to attempt the journey to work. If my home is the peak of Everest, work is Base Camp. I have a feeling I’m in for a long journey to Base Camp today.

There’s a section of Everest called the Hillary Step that is near vertical and extremely dangerous. My Hillary Steps are dangerous, too. Right now, they’re glossy. That can’t be good. I gingerly make my way down and then across the ice floe that’s formed on my walkway. The wind is still blowing, so the temperature that’s supposed to have gone up past the freezing mark feels more like five below zero. Where are my crampons? Where is my ice axe?

When I get to my car, I find that it’s encased in ice like a Kinder Egg. My reward for getting inside the egg will be my ability to go to work. Although I like my job a lot, I think I prefer the real Kinder Egg prizes. I chip away at the ice, but despite my best efforts can’t get it all off. It’s as solid as Everest snow.

Eventually I make enough headway to move out. My road is one long sheet of white, kind of like a luge track. Or, to use another Everest analogy, like the Northeast Ridge. A light suddenly appears on my dashboard screen. It’s a picture of a wrench. That’s never good. The only thing worse is when the dash light goes almost completely black, which mine then does. A message appears stating that I’m almost out of oil.

My Sherpa guide of a car is failing. Despite the cold I’m sweating. Now what do I do?

I drive to the nearest garage is what I do. I had an oil change only weeks before and sure enough, it turns out that there’s plenty of oil. The mechanic simply forgot to reset the monitor.

I arrive at work, aka Base Camp, cold, weary, and in need of a really big cup of coffee. I may not be brave enough to climb mountains, but winter in New England is no joke. Especially when it follows a balmy Fool’s Spring.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.