I knew better than to ask Mom. The last time I’d told her there wasn’t anything to do, I spent half the weekend cleaning my room.
So, I sat on my bed and considered the options. Nobody else was home, and March was no help. Too warm for winter, but too cold for spring. Too bare for autumn, but not wild enough for summer.
However, this was one of the warmer days where a hooded sweatshirt was all I needed to stay comfortable. With clear skies and a strong, south breeze in my favor, I left for the woods.
The creek at the bottom of the hill had always summoned me with the soft burble of water over the rocks playing an irresistible siren song. I grinned in anticipation and strode down the hill toward my destiny.
Several hours later, I sneaked in through the garage, but encountered Mom in the washroom. She passed her steely gaze over me, and I gulped at her expression.
“Well?”
A spark of hope warmed me. Maybe, she hadn’t noticed my soaked sneakers, the mud up to my knees or the grime everywhere else.
“I’m sorry, Mom. There wasn’t anything else to do. None of my friends were home. I don’t like basketball, football ended months ago, plus it’s too cold for baseball. And, there’s no snow.”
Mom sighed. “March can be like that. I want you to wash your shoes, get the mud off your jeans, then take a bath, and I mean a hot one. When you’re clean and ready for bed, you can have dinner. Scoot!”
With consequences this mild, I counted myself lucky and hastened to obey. The next morning, I woke to four inches of heavy, wet snow that had plastered the trees and covered the ground.
March. What’re you gonna do?
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.