The March Dilemma

“Dad, there’s nothing to do.” Ian threw himself onto the sofa, the very picture of dejection.

“Why don’t you go outside?”

“Too cold.”

“How about some baseball?”

“Nobody wants to play in weather like this.” He peered around the drapes.  Solid, low clouds and dormant grass did nothing to lighten the Saturday morning or Ian’s mood. “What did you do on days like this when you were little?”

I leaned back in my chair. “March is tough. Temperatures can get below freezing, but there’s no snow, and spring feels like it’s months away.”

A fond memory drifted through my mind. “My parents wouldn’t let March stop them. One time, Dad made a bunch of hamburger patties while mom cored apples, filled them with cinnamon candy, and wrapped them in aluminum foil.”

Ian sat upright and stared at me. “What did you do then?”

“They took us out for a picnic. We bundled up and drove to the park. Once there, we had our pick of the tables, and Dad sent us out to get sticks for the fire. My sisters were too little to help, so my two brothers and I brought back a boatload.”

I studied the skies through the picture window. “A leftover snowbank in the shade chilled our bottles of soda, and, after the fire burned down, Mom put the apples in the coals while Dad cooked the burgers. We climbed in the rocks and boulders until everything was ready.”

Ian slouched back on the couch. “Then what?”

“A funny thing happened. The sun came out and warmed things up. We ate hamburgers, chips, cottage cheese and steaming baked beans, all washed down with snow-cold soda. And, for dessert, cinnamon apples, fresh from the fire.”

“Sandi?” I rose from my chair. “Feel like going on a picnic?”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.