March 15, 1979

It starts with a small but significant sensation in the lower chest; a peculiar feeling that things are changing, that the seemingly eternal cold of winter may indeed be coming to an end.
At first it is almost undetectable. It grows as slowly as the snow drifts melt. But with a few days of balmy temperatures and clear skies, the feeling builds, and things do change.
Suddenly it becomes visible. The first sign is a tuft of weedy grass in the front yard. Then a robin appears to pluck a moist worm from the soft soil. Geese and ducks fill the sky, noisily headed north, headed home with the elation of the season. New-born lambs and calves bound across open fields with an air of freedom previously covered by layers of snow.
Spring is here and the entire universe is alive with it. Wheat fields are lush green and growing. The sky is baby blue. The bleakness of winter is gone.
No less obvious than the changing surroundings are the changes in people. They have come out of hibernation and are actively taking advantage of the warmth. They are biking, jogging, or just walking. Motorcycles are revved up and tennis rackets are unfettered. People are stepping lively with enthusiastic smiles that glow like the spring sun. Overcoats and long johns are replaced with shorts and t-shirts. Conversations tend to be more optimistic, more ebullient, more hurried. There are things to do. The siege is over.
Warnings from the weatherman that winter's fury may reappear go unheeded. This is no time for dissension; no one has the right to break this spell, this captivation which has permeated us. The days do not require warning, rather they beg for reverence. They call for veneration in the budding of trees, the building of nests, the brilliance of faces, and the blossoming of emotions.
It is not a time for reality. Reality merely masks the magic. It is not a time for analysis. Rather, it is a time for submission; a submission to the world of life which is being reborn. It is a mystical time of wondrous miracles.
The next ten weeks are the cream of the year, the heart of our lives, the essence of our souls. The next ten weeks are as close to heaven as Kansas can get.
Grab a hunk of spring now before July comes and the opportunity has passed.... ~T.Stucky

March 1, 1984

People are tripping over themselves in a mad dash to pat February on the back. Editors of daily newspapers have called February 1984 “very, very good.” Others have praised its shiny days and comfortable nights. Everywhere people are raising their voices in praise of this blessed month.
Bah! Sure we haven’t had a blizzard this month. Granted, it was pleasant to have 50-degree-plus temperatures on more than twenty of February’s days. Certainly it was nice to let the snowshovel collect dust on the back porch.
But let’s not get carried away folks. Remember last February? Remember the February before that? And the one before that?
To run around praising this nasty month for simply easing the siege is like smiling at the bully when, for only a moment, he stops kicking you in the head. This “very, very good” month will be back next year as surly as ever. And it won’t matter a bit that we said kind things about it this year.
So, while you still have a chance before March blows you away, say something derogatory about February. It deserves it….~T.Stucky