One of these days I'm going to figure out that my carefully-laid plans to tackle a number of outdoor projects over the winter on those occasional mild days ain't gonna work out. For one thing, there ain't many mild days up here at 3,186 feet on the last ridge between the Eastern Continental Divide and the Blue Ridge Escarpment.
And when there are those few mild days -- forecasts above 40 degrees and winds of less than 15 mph -- the fact is they don't warm up enough to melt snow until afternoon, and they start getting colder again an hour later. They are short work days, those winter afternoons, even here in the final weeks of winter.
So on the rare occasions when the mercury rises a bit and the sun peeks out a bit and the winds diminish a bit, there's a fevered race to get ahead start on spring chores., Thus in the past week we've pretty much worn ourselves out trying to get the blueberries pruned, the brushpile burned, the 6 trailer loads of leaves hauled that had piled up on the south side of the house, the old shed next to the asparagus patch cleaned out, that twisted pile of rusted metal roofing hauled to the county dump transfer station, the tire changed on the older of the two farm carts and the potholes in the gravel driveway filled with stone. Got most of it done, but those potholes will have to wait for a drier day.
No wonder I feel every one of my 157 years. The calendar says I'm merely 68 years and eight months old, but my knees, calves, back and hands tell me they aren't going to work like that anymore, and besides, the machinery is way out of warranty.
Not a problem. Forecast is for a week of rain, and not much point in dreaming up anything else that needs attention. Besides, the Nationals and the Orioles are in spring training camp down the coast a ways, and I expect they'll be needing my services before too very much longer. I always like to be available this time of year when the phone starts ringing, and anxious managers inquire how fast I can get down yonder, you know. Play ball!