Not just why I hate this spring, mind you, but every spring. Of course, this year it’s just plain worse. Worse I says.
1) There was no winter. There was no break. There was no respite. It was dry and warm. Which means fewer seeds will germinate. It’s 80 here. I got mild heat stroke.
2) I’m not rested. There is hardly a blip in my mind and heart from October to March. I swear it was a week ago I was marveling at the bright red of ninebark and the copper of bald cypress. I need my seasons, and….
3) I’m sick sick sick of hearing people on social media praising spring, so excited to garden again, as if the winter was long and boring and the most terrible period of their lives ever. Get real. It was waaaaay too easy. We haven’t earned spring. I feel like a massive slacker. I need to go beat my back with a whip. I’m still impure.
4) I’m not anxious for spring one bit. Spring means clean up. And since it’s so hot I started nearly a month before last year, and finished on 3/10. The pressure of spring is pissing me off. Get off my back, spring. I’m warning you. Step off, punk.
5) I always boast that my 1,500 feet would require only one mad day of cleanup. Which is true. If you aren’t a garden hawk. I see seedlings to move, plants to divide, mulch to place, beds to expand, branches to trim…. It’s like having a frenetic disco ball inside my head. And now this year I’ve started seed inside and plan a veggie bed. What the sandhill crane was I thinking?
6) People leave their barky dogs outside longer, and more often. This means less sleep for me.
7) Basketballs thud well past dark. Leftover fireworks punctuate twilight. The gun range is getting busier.
Lawnmowers. This is inevitable, like death or bad bowel movements. Or blog posts like this one with references to bad bowel movements. Usually, the first mowers go off about April 1 even though the lawns aren’t even green. Then come leaf blowers and edgers for 6 months. Then comes the cRaZy blogger.
9) Winter is for reading and writing. I did much reading. I did not do much writing. This infuriates me. I’m way off schedule. But I wasn’t ready. Now I am. And now it’s spring. How can I stay inside when the birds are chirping and butterflies are coming out and there are so many crocus and iris to macro? (yes, it’s now a verb) It’s hard to get in a groove, especially hard to discipline one’s self anyway. Stupid spring.
10) Spring means summer is next. Summer is hot. Summer means many trips. Summer means insects and flowers to photograph and fawn over like Homer Simpson does donuts. Summer means even less time to write. I will never name my kid summer. Autumn would be better. Spring would imply they walk funny. Winter would be weird. Might as well name your kid wintergreen and hang a pine tree around their neck. Which I would do.
* And to add insult to injury, the willows and crabapples are turning green, chokeberry and serviceberry are breaking bud, the elm is blooming, and I think I saw a cicada the size of a football eating a junco (it was far away, so maybe not the case). Fall right on into summer this year. 
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