March was always a funny month for me while living in Maine.
In some respects, it signaled the end of our long winter season was nearly over, and that the warmth of spring was on the horizon; but in others, it reminded us that massive piles of white snow were just as likely to appear before the calendar finally flipped over to April. And even April was no guarantor of good weather: I remember at least one year growing up when we had the delight of a late season snow day around the middle of the month. Then there was another year where my father struggled to get the lawn mower running four weeks earlier than normal because the grass had grown gangbusters.
So yeah, March was always a funny month.
When I moved to Arizona, I kind of assumed winter was a different experience altogether, and for that most part, that has held true. What continues to surprise me, though, even after two decades, is the extreme variance in temperature we see. It’s not all that unusual to go for a run first thing in the morning, bundled up against the chill of a 24 degree pre-dawn, and then be able to eat lunch out on the patio at the office in shirtsleeves relishing in a balmy 75 at noontime.
Maybe someday I’ll get used it. Maybe.
The wind is the same on both coasts at this time of year, though. It never failed that the old phrase — in like a lion, out like a lamb — always seemed to apply back home; if we had a blustery start to March, the final days leading to April would be guaranteed perfect camping weather. Conversely, don’t even think about packing up your cold weather gear if we snuck into March without a hint of weather. About the only difference in Arizona is our wind now tends to kick up massive amounts of dust, leading to some terrible conditions during the day but amazing sunsets at night.
How I was personally affected by the weather has definitely percolated into my writing; that, and my incessant cheerleading for warm places such as Anaheim or Orlando. I suffered through too many long, cold winters where the wind felt like it sliced through you not dream of spending those months someplace nicer. While I’ve not always managed to get to those warm places myself each year, there’s no reason Sean or Vasily couldn’t do that on my behalf — allowing us to live vicariously through them.