I taught Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales this week in my British Lit Survey course, and Gentle Reader, I explained to them that folks long to go on pilgrimages when Spring comes. See, I never understood the Spring thing before, having lived my entire life in the South. We get two seasons in New Orleans: hot and hotter. It’s evergreen, and no leaves change colors, flowers bud year round, and as witnessed this past week, below 30 degree temperatures are apocalyptic.
But now that I live in the Midwest, I understand that longing for Spring, the desire to go somewhere, get out of the house, be in the fresh sunshine. I never understood that before, and now, I find myself longing for warmer temperatures, despite a lifetime of summer loathing. When I moved from Texas, it was 113 degrees. I swore to myself, Never Again.
While I don’t long for 100+ temps, I do long for Spring or Fall, the crispness to the air, but not the bite of Winter. And today, O, Gentle Reader, today! it is 57 degrees outside. 57 degrees! Practically Florida! I am going to romp around with just a sweater, and no coat in sight.
That is to say, February 1st feels like a renewal to me: fresher temps, a reduction of the Mean Reds (which resulted in Shoe Shopping yesterday. It happens), and a chance to get out of my slump and move forward with everything.
Who’s with me?
The Postmodern Bluestocking 