Every winter I wait for spring, the anticipation growing with every impending temperature drop and snow emergency. I wait for the warm breeze, the mud and the smell of the earth opening up once more. Despite all this anticipation I forget how wonderful it really is. Every February we get a day of false hope, people wandering around in short sleeved shirts, only the next day to be bundling up against the cold that had not gone. Every March it edges closer until finally the warming is more than just a fluke. The warm wind whips around the winter sediment only to be turned to mud and returned to the earth by a chilly rain the next day. This is not to say that it won’t snow in April, but by that time the snow will be the fluke and will melt the next day, leaving us with greening grass and the slow budding of flowers.

A couple weekends ago it was remarked to me how the weekends just seemed to be getting better as well. It was the right mix of people in the same old place at the same old time, but it just was so much better. The weekend before last was no exception. Minneapolis is the best place to be in spring, but only if you were here to survive the winter. Minnesota, being a northern state, has always prided itself on the survivor mentality. People ask why we stay, for some of us it’s because our family is here, what we know is here. We leave, for various reasons, but most find their way back. The weekends are not the only things that are better. We actually want to leave our tiny apartments again, we sit and eat dinner on the porch swing; we say hello to neighbors on the street. Everyone is bursting to be out and about and so we do.

Welcome back.