It’s about this time of year, when we’re going into our fifteenth month of winter, that I start looking forward to Spring. Spring is coming. It always does. The weather will warm. The snow will melt. The lakes will thaw, then we’ll be attacked by the monster they call April, and a foot of snow will be dumped on us, and we’ll have to start all over again.

This is the most depressing time of the year. It’s not just that we’ve already endured about a year and a half of snow and cold, but the weather is so erratic. One day will be balmy weather filled with sun where we’ll put on shorts and flip flops, and the next day it will be below zero with penguins knocking on doors wanting to come inside to get out of the cold.

When I was a kid, I was young, stupid and unrealistic when it came to spring. As soon as the snow melted, I was sure spring was on the way. The grass would start to green, and the robins would return. The absolute surest sign of spring. I’d dig out my fishing pole and stow all my cold weather gear away. It was heartbreaking when that late April snowstorm always came and put me back in the ice age. Stupid robins.

Now that I’ve put on a few years, I have changed … I am no longer young. When the snow melts and the trees start to bud out and the grass begins turning green, I still have that same anticipation that spring is here. The logical, mature person in me whispers, “We’ll still have a snowstorm or two.” But that unrealistic kid in me won’t listen to some stupid old man who is not saying what I want to hear. It’s warm out. The robins are back. It is spring, and nothing can convince me otherwise … except April.

My new novel A Death in a Snowstorm is about people trying to make things into what they want them to be. I appreciate those of you who have read the book. I’d really, really appreciate someone doing a review.

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