Glastonbury | Spring

Spring officially arrived two weeks ago. (Whatever that means. It's not like the weather reads the calendar and reacts accordingly.) Last year, I vowed to hate spring less, and I'm sad to say that despite my best efforts I did not succeed. Spring in popular imagination involves pastel sweaters and little cartoon birds singing. Spring in Connecticut is not like that; it's cold, and damp, and muddy, and it stretches on far longer than it has any right to.

But yesterday, when I ventured out into the 30 degree morning to move my car to the opposite side of my street, I smelled it. Real Spring may not have the balmy days and ubiquitous budding flowers of Imaginary Spring, but it does have a scent. It smells like earth emerging tentatively from a blanket of snow, or a river just beginning to transform from ice to water again. It smells cold, but not like cold arriving; it smells like cold getting ready - very slowly - to leave.

So I decided to combine the errand I had to run in Glastonbury with a quick walk down Main Street. Glastonbury looks lovely in any season, but it wasn't exactly warm out. Sadly, nobody was wearing a pastel sweater. But there's still time. Maybe Imaginary Spring will show up next month.