Back before the world got warm, someone made up this idea that robins return from migration in the spring, and their return is a sure sign that winter is over. As the harsh winter thawed into the muds of March, we would anxiously await our first robin sighting. This, we knew, meant spring had finally beat out winter and the weather would finally warm up. If the snow fell once the robins returned, we would find foods these picky little worm-eaters would eat—raisins, raw ground beef (um…?), cooked spaghetti—and we would toss it outside in hopes the robins would eat it. They seldom did because really… cooked spaghetti??
Back before the world got warm, the snow would begin to fall in December—occasionally even November—and stay on the ground, piling up to amazing heights (we were little, so our perspective was different) until February or March or April. There would be no sign of bare ground for all those months, and the ongoing snow cover would help to keep the insect population down. The snow would bury all of our shortcuts across fields and around the neighborhood houses, making our paths impassable. We would be forced to add extra time to our journey to travel the long way ‘round on plowed sidewalks lest we lose a boot in the deep snow.
Back before the world got warm, winters were cold and sharp and jagged. The snowflakes would pummel our faces with their sharp edges and pointy lines. The ice and snow would crunch under our feet everywhere we walked. Lakes and ponds would freeze over, sealing all of the fish and frogs and turtles deep inside. Perhaps that would be claustrophobic for the fish—a smaller pond with no access to the open air. I saw a picture on social media the other day of someone skating on a ice that was obviously too thin. Thankfully, they were in a shallow spot, and hopefully they stayed there. But back before the world got warm, the ice on ponds and lakes was most definitely thick enough to skate by the end of January.
Back before the world got warm, it would snow regularly, but we seldom had hugely hyped “snowstorms.” And when we did, they usually lasted long enough and dumped enough snow that school would be cancelled for two days. Back then, snowstorms were not named like tropical storms and hurricanes, as if they were something to be feared. When it snowed several inches at a time, it wasn’t something big—it simply was. Nowadays, “snowstorms” come frequently, dropping 3, 4, 5 inches of snow; the warm world feels somewhat wimpy in its overly dramatic approach to snow.
It’s the end of January, and on this morning’s walk, I passed a flock of robins feasting on the rotting berries of a crabapple tree. It is not spring. Nor is spring even close. But now that the world is warm, the birds don’t migrate. This weekend, a heron stood in our not completely frozen pond, fishing for his dinner. Somedays, I long for the world before it got warm—the snow cover that keeps the tick population down; the frozen ground, hard like pavement with each step; the spring grass, so bright it hurts your eyes after a winter of no sun.
Sometimes, I think I might have dreamt the world before it got warm. Maybe we had robins all winter then, but we weren’t really looking. Maybe the ice didn’t freeze as completely as I remember—at least not every single winter. Maybe time has warped my memories and the winters are not much different than they were back before the world got warm.
Positively Un-broken 