As a novelist, one would normally think that I could compile an appropriate homage to the welcomed arrival of the coming season. Something perceptive; something profound; something not cliche. Okay, here's the deal: Spring beats Winter and its depressing grayness.
Now the philosophers among you can go berserk wondering what that means. The rest of us will stand with nursery packs of baby flowers and vegetables in hand and plant them where we figured color ought to go in the yard all winter long. It's far from rocket science, although I have been known to kill more plants than most because I follow the instructions up to the point of "In Order To Get A Healthy Plant, Do This..." That's when I think I have the planting handled and ignore the pesky details.
This is where I figure our Native American brothers and sisters had the advantage over people who plunked down in one spot and figured to be independent, relying on their own enginuity to survive. The tribes were smart enough to learn the land and show up when the vegetation, fish and animals did on their annual trek between summer and winter camps. Sure, some of them planted, but usually because they were forced to after getting relocated to reservations.
Me? I would have probably been one of those settlers that couldn't figure out why my corn always died out before it ripened. I wouldn't even have enough for a good batch of moonshine from my still to drown my sorrows.
Dead plants or not, Spring still beats Winter and I'm thankful for my neighborhood grocery store to supply that which I have killed.