Tuesday, May 22, 2012

May. Bah!

Eliot declared April to be the cruelest month, but I think May is a worthy competitor, at least where I live.  Here, May brings weather that unpredictably gyrates from sunny and hot to rainy and cold.  In between it’s just overcast.  Newly manicured lawns and patios are trashed with locust seeds and other tree generated detritus, while garages are filled with cottonwood tufts, and both are dragged muddily through the house by pets and people alike. 
One day I’m in my summer uniform of shorts, tee shirt and flip flops (slippers).  The next I’ve got on winter clothing that needs to be put away, and soon.  The fireplace may not yet have seen its final blaze until fall.  But it is possible that the air conditioner could get an unexpected workout. 
It’s the fickleness of the whole thing.  Whatever happened to the romantic ideal of a seamless, gentle transition of spring into summer?  I thought May was supposed to provide that.

2 comments:

Dianna Woolley said...

Dear Curmudgeon -

Haven't you heard? Patience is a virture - yet apparently not one of yours:)

Anonymous said...

From A.E.Housman: "The chestnut casts his flambeaux...Pass me the can,lad; there's an end of May... There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot, One season ruined of our mortal store. May will be fine next year as like as not; Oh ay, but then we shall be twenty-four." 1896 Dr B