Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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The Unbeautiful Side of Spring

 

 

Yeah, yeah: robins, daffodils, blue skies.

Let us consider those other signs of Spring.

 

Potholes.

That metallic shriek from under your car is probably the sound of your axle breaking. Spring's freeze-thaw-freeze-thaw cycle wreaks havoc on the streets, which in turn wreak havoc on your undercarriage, not to mention your dental work.

Freezing Rain.

And you thought snow was bad? Ha! Talk about misery, danger? Baby, you ain't seen nothing yet.

Glacial Lakes.

Yes, the snow is melting, but—the ground being still frozen—there's nowhere for the meltwater to go. So it pools.

Better leave some extra time to get wherever you're going. Once you factor in the time needed for portage, you may just be doubling your trip.

Refreeze.

By day, a glacial lake; by night, a skating rink.

Better practice your falling skills, mate. Believe me, you're going to need them.

Mud.

Once the ground actually does begin to thaw, it softens. Welcome to Quagmire Season!

Among other reasons, Putin's 40-mile road-jam is stalled north of Kyiv because it has to stay on the road. It's rásputitsa season in Ukraine, the mud-time, which means that you might as well stay at home. Once a tank sinks into the mud, you'll never get it out again.

Mat' sira Zemlya, Moist Mother Earth, fights back.

Flotsam and Jetsam.

The receding high tide of Winter leaves behind it six month's worth of accumulated detritus: beer cans, syringes, potato chip bags. The occasional gritty quarter is the best you can hope for.

The Dog Shit Miasma.

A plague on irresponsible dog-walkers. Nothing says early Spring in a Northern city quite like that whiff of canine waste that hits you every time you step out the front door: six months' worth, all thawing at once. Hoo-ha.

More Cabbage.

Don't get me wrong, I love cabbage. As vegetables go, it's delicious, nutritious, and incredibly versatile, and lucky we are to have it.

Even so, it's going to be another month-and-a-half, minimum, before we start getting chives, sorrel, and rhubarb from the garden. Meanwhile, it's cabbage soup for supper again.

Again.

 

When I listen to our repertoire of Equinox songs, I note with interest that a surprising number of them are set in minor keys, with more than a note of sadness to them. This is no beautiful, curvaceous, young let's-go-f*ck-in-the woods Spring: not yet.

This is Spring the lean, wise with hardship, who rises up out of Winter with haunted eyes.

The blue skies, the daffodils, the robins: these will all come. But they're not here yet.

Meanwhile, we wait, and savor the promise of the signs, unbeautiful though they may be.

Whoa, just smell that dog shit.

 

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Tagged in: spring ukraine
Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

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