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Spring in the Ozarks

Where I come from, early March is the painfully frustrating zenith of "Why Do I Live Here?" season. Winter's angry fist is still pounding the collective skulls of the city with "wintry mix" haymakers, while movies, magazines, clothing stores and all our West Coast friends are reminding us that elsewhere, it is Spring. Chicago has many merits, but the length and ferocity of this season is not one of them. When I lived there, I had adapted an old saying to fit my experiences: "March -- In like a lion, out like a ... mountain lion." You can expect its furor in the beginning, but at the end it's more spry and unsuspecting.

But I live here now and I gotta say, I'm digging the weather. Sure there was some snow and ice and chilly days, but after all the hoopla, I tended to look around and say, "That's it? Why haven't I been awoken by a salt truck rumbling down my street? Where are the Fiat-sized potholes? Why can I still feel my hands?!?" I can't recall any winters in my lifetime where a 60º January day wasn't an aberration, and a 70º February day wasn't a call for retreating to a fallout shelter. This was winter-lite, folks.

And here we are, on the precipice of Spring, and it's pretty glorious. My yard has had wild crocus blooming for weeks and my flip-flops are already in rotation. Sure it could turn on a dime and I'll be caught off guard, "jorts"-clad and knee-deep in snow, but I choose to think we're on an upswing.

As a result, all I can think about is the outdoors. I picture myself wearing that yellow, strapless sundress in the window of Staxx (even though I look terrible in yellow). I can almost taste the refreshing, hoppy Mueller Pale Ale on the sundeck of BrewCo. I crave guacamole, homemade from the freshest avocados, or with a pitcher of margaritas at Cielito Lindo. I'm hankering for walks in our neighborhood, curiously plotted to include a serendipitous stroll past Ebbets Field. Related to that, I am so very ready for baseball season. I am anxiously awaiting the return of the light, zesty chicken tortilla soup at St. Michael's. I'm jonesing for a window seat at Kai, taking a long pull of an icy Asahi to cool the fire from their fiery Kai Confidential roll. I have a yen for runs along the Galloway Trail in my last throes of marathon training, having jettisoned my perfunctory long underwear in favor of shorts and t-shirts. Oh, and immediately followed by a Fat Tire and veggie quesadillas at Galloway Station. I can almost feel the rock bed of the Buffalo River under my feet, watching my dog dive for the ball my fiance thew, and yes, still with a beer in my hand.

The thing is, it's within reach. I still miss my old home, but all this is certainly softening the blow. And the three consecutive days forecast to be in the 70's this week? I hope you enjoy it, because I'll be back in Chicago getting pummeled by a lake wind for the weekend. Sigh.

-Kerry

(Producer)