No more spring!

The two-year anniversary of the start of my latest attempt to write a novel has come and gone and I really haven't made any progress. I've thought about it some, but that doesn't really count. I can't remember the last time I added something substantial to it. So I'm going to complain about something else, something I have no control over, but that won't stop me from complaining about it: The weather.

On average this spring, and I think every spring, temperatures run at least 10 degrees below normal. And it's windy. There's the occasional tease of a sunny, 80-degree day, and then it's right back to a stretch of 50s, cloudy and windy. I'm tired of spring. In fact, I was tired of spring on March 21. If I had any control of the seasons, there would only be three of them: summer, fall and winter.

Summer would last five months: five months of 90-degree days and 70-degree nights, a good dose of humidity and an occasional light breeze, no wind, except for during thunderstorms. But no tornados or hurricanes.

Fall would last four months and would feature daytime highs in the 70s, nights in the 50s and less humidity. The perfect conditions for keeping the windows open.

Then three months of real winter, or nine weeks to be more exact. Nine weeks of knee-deep snow, logs on the fireplace and lots of hot chocolate. The last three weeks of winter would make up for March, April and May. Three weeks should be long enough for the body to adjust from winter to summer, and for the plants and animals as well. Three weeks of misery; 49 weeks of the stuff I like.