Spring spring spring
At last, spring has begun in earnest â€” the season of life, love, and baseball.
Less romantically, itâ€™s also the season of mud.
Early spring in Minnesota is wonderful for those of us who live here and are just sick of looking at snow, but itâ€™s not so impressive for people from other states, who look around and wonder how we can stand all the mud and still-dead grass.
At this time of year, we Minnesotans love the gloppy ground and brown, stunted grass. If nothing else, thereâ€™s novelty in it. We havenâ€™t seen the ground for months, remember? Anything is better than snow.
All thatâ€™s left is snirt now, that disgusting, black-encrusted mound of filthy ice-snow that refuses to melt until King Arthur returns and the Twins win the World Series.
Snirt is the last hold-out of winter, the winter equivalent of the tactless guy that sticks around long after the party is over when youâ€™d really like to start putting the Chex Mix away. Youâ€™d like to tell snirt to get lost or take a shovel to it, but youâ€™re just too polite, and itâ€™s easier to just wait it out anyway.
And then thereâ€™s the fun of seeing what the melting snow reveals.
Do you remember that toy your child cried over for three days? The pair of sunglasses you thought you left at church? Or maybe even your car keys or wallet?
Everything is buried in a snowbank somewhere, it seems, and now that spring is here, it is becoming unburied. I half expect Jimmy Hoffa or Judge Joseph Crater to wander out of the yard, looking confused and wondering where the time went.
Pretty soon flowers will start blooming, and even people from far afield will recognize the merit of Minnesota mud.
Let it be a monument to the fallen snirt.