It must be spring. We got outside this past weekend.
I mean, we’ve been outside in the last month, just not very much. There’s the standard afternoon post-school runaround and the weekend toodle around the yard, but that’s about it. I keep trying to write here, but there hasn’t been much to say. It’s been pretty lousy outside and we’ve been distinctly unadventurous.
But this past weekend, we escaped the cold, rain, damp, greyness that’s been hanging over us and we got outside.
We wandered dazedly around the woods, blinking at the sunshine and trying to remember what we do out there.
We stretched and breathed and felt the warm sun on our skin.
We uncovered the crocuses, daffodils, and even the garlic and pondered the possibility of planting some peas and spinach.
We put the chickens out to free-range and watched them toss last fall’s leaves in the air as they searched for bugs.
We went for a walk down to the pond, where the Canadian geese are back and we noticed the female is situated comfortably on a nest.
We heard the first frog croaks as twilight approached.
We counted robins in the grass. (Four. No, wait, five.)
We had a snack outside on the porch in the sun.
My son attempted the climbing tree and discovered that not only could he finally get onto the lowest branch without assistance, but he has a new ease in swinging himself around from branch to branch. The kid who last summer had to be lifted onto the tree and only made it one or two branches up before getting stuck was now zipping around like a monkey on a ladder.
“Looks like I got some climbing skills over the winter,” he called down from about 15 feet up.
Yesterday it turned gray and rainy again, but we’re okay for a bit because this past weekend, we got outside.
It must be spring.