When we moved to the farm years ago, I chuckled when the farmer said, "We always get a good rain during fair week," and "there's always a cold snap during the pork conference."
I soon fell into the rhythms of farm life, and learned to count on January blasts of cold and snow, of Februaries that teased with thaws and more snow, of mud-filled March. I transplanted plants in the garden on Mother's Day weekend and looked forward to those late August rains.
But in this year of non-winter, my internal clock is off. We've had little snow, and even less freezing weather. Temperatures reached into the 70's this weekend.
Because it was warm, my body said to clean the barn, to hang clothes on the line--even though it was February.
Because it was February, I admired the crocus that peak through blades of green.
And I worry that the other bulbs are emerging too early.
Because we haven't had weeks of snowy weather and being confined indoors, I have yet to plan my spring garden.
And I really have to think about when lambing season begins.
Lambs are usually the bright spot among the March snow, ice and mud.
But we have little mud, and no frozen ground, and the pregnant ewes are content to browse the pastures looking for morsels of green.
They wear thick winter coats and are hanging onto them a little longer.
Because everything in their bones says that winter isn't over yet.