Spring

As the snow plows go by for the second time down my street I am recanting my ode to spring.  My snow drops are no drops right now.  March has indeed come in like the proverbial lion, which the owner of Jimmy John's shot and is standing over while someone left the cake out in the rain and I may never have that recipe again.

All I might say is merde, a lovely French word that sums up my sense of injustice this cruel winter has played upon us twice in less than a week.  The Old Duffer couldn't come over last night to play guitar with me.  I also hasten to add that in spite of several offers of a ride home last night I felt more comfortable on my own two feet.  Yes, the pedal extremities got me home.  A snowy mixture of sleet like proportions covered my dome and necessitated a quick shower when I did arrive home, in less than a half hour I hasten to add, as my hair was soaked.  Joe, my yard and snow guy, will earn his fee today.  I just hope he can come out before I return home this afternoon.  Old Duffer is planning to come this evening, which is actually when he wanted to come this week.  I should  write to him first next week to see if he wants to play just to show that I am interested in keeping this relationship.

All this snow and baseball's spring training has begun in earnest.  I watched a few games yesterday  as the snow was pelting down.  Talk about contrasts.

So it seems that this blog has returned to its roots.  Less a plundering of personalities out to get this paranoid self and more of nonsensical ponderings.  For this I apologize.  I did so enjoy Jack and sorely miss the presence of a conscience at play.  No, less at play and more of being indignant.  I love me a good indignant.