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As we move out of sensitive Pisces, I feel my own fiery sun sign of Aries begin to kick its strong hooves into gear. I love when the sun first enters the sign of Aries at the time of the Spring Equinox/Ostara. I’m all about new beginnings, new projects, fresh starts, and creative approaches to problem-solving. When coupled with the always optimistic, first glimmers of spring, one can’t help but lean hard on the side of hope. I appreciate the dreamy, sweet side of Pisces, and know that I have some in my chart, due to the close proximity of where my birthdate falls (the 23^rd). This being said, I also welcome my fighting, brave, adventurous side just around the corner. I look forward to ushering it in with verve and gusto. I’ve had to employ some of this especially recently when it comes to standing up for myself. Often I’d prefer to avoid unpleasant confrontation, preferring flight instead of fight mode.

Justice for All

One thing about we Aries types though, we have a particularly strong sense of defending against anything unjust—whether behavior done to ourselves or our loved ones. So that doesn’t really allow for hiding away from saying what needs to be said or done. This can be applied in the workplace, setting firm boundaries with those who are apt to bring you down, or simply calling out a particularly rough new hygienist in the dentist’s office. Sure we could just lay back and grimace through the pain. But is it really doing anyone any good, especially if the rudeness if pretty over-the -op and the perp isn’t aware, or doesn’t think there are any consequences for their behavior?

I'm in the front yard clearing away the last of the Winter detritus from around the shrubs when I hear the tinny sound of the Summer's first ice cream truck.

All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel.

It's playing the first phrase from the old kiddie classic, Pop! Goes the Weasel. Unfortunately, that's all that it's playing, over and over and over again.

All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel.

All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel.

All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel.

After only a few truncated repetitions, my teeth are already on edge. I wonder how the driver manages to deal with it for hours at a time. Surely he must wake up at night hearing it in his head. Not having heard of any curbside massacres recently, I presume that after a while the thalamus kicks in and you just stop hearing it. Thank Goddess for sensory gating.

All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel.

A few seasons back, the neighborhood ice cream truck played some cowanish Christmas carol; I can't recall which one. (Silent Night, maybe?) I was never sure whether this was intentional or not. Christmas = Winter = cold = ice cream seems a pretty straightforward set of linked associations. Certainly the seasonal incongruity successfully caught my attention pretty much every time.

On the other hand, a lot of local ice cream trucks are owned and operated by immigrants, many of them from the Middle East. I suppose it's possible that the Winter-themed music was no more than a product of blissful cultural unawareness.

The first robin of Spring sits in the snow of the front porch roof.

He looks cold.

Pleased as I am to see him—the gods grant the omen—I'm also surprised. Being eaters of worms and insects, robins usually follow the thaw northwards. But it's been a cold Winter here in Paganistan. Not only is the ground still frozen—in fact, the frost-depth is deeper than usual this year—but it's still covered with snow.

Why the robin, then? Easy.

He's here for the party.

Going upstairs one sunny morning in early Spring several years ago, I found myself thinking: What are those birds making such a ruckus about? Looking out the back window, I saw an amazing sight.

The branches of the crab trees on either side of the back gate were filled with robins, all squawking—not singing—at once. First off, this was odd because robins are not, in general, flocking birds.

Moreover, maybe a dozen more were actually rolling in the snow on the roof, a very un-birdlike behavior. As I watched, one staggered and fell over.

In fact, they were drunk.

Late Winter's repeated freezing and thawing ferments the sugars in the hard little crab apples. Birds and animals all know this and seek it out: robins, deer, bears. Think of it: a drunk bear. Now there's an encounter best avoided.

Back when I used to work as a waiter, my fellow servers would often gripe when they got a table of non-drinkers. This is understandable: a few cocktails and a bottle of wine can double a tab and up your tip percentage accordingly. Me, I never minded non-drinkers though, for this very good reason: people that don't drink are much more likely to order dessert, and not just one for the table, either.

In Mormon Utah, where, for religious reasons, many people don't drink alcohol, the per capita sugar consumption is higher than anywhere else in the country. The same is true of Hindu India and the Muslim Middle East. Everybody likes a buzz, and sugar is a powerful drug.

Well, it's been a long, hard Winter. Things are unsure. Food is beginning to run out, and we're not going to be seeing much from the garden in the near future. Meanwhile, we're seeing the worst inflation in decades, gas prices are way up, and Putin's war in Europe could just possibly spell the end of the world-order as we know it.

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.