As I write this, it’s a little before 7 p.m. on Friday, March 20, 2020.
Today is the first full day of spring, and it’s felt like it, with temperatures in the low 60s, the occasional rain shower, and westerly wind that’s been downright fierce at times. Tomorrow will be in the low 30s. So, for Vermont, typical spring.
A local maple producer drove by about a million timed today on his old tractor, hauling tanks of sap to the sugarhouse for boiling. They say the syrup is particularly pretty this year. A nice, clear golden. Literally Grade A stuff.
I’m writing at the table on our front porch. It’s a closed-in porch, but close enough to being outside that it’s a welcome change from the past few months of writing and typing in at the kitchen table. I’ve waited for this day all winter.
My daughter just went out for a run. It’s starting to get dark, but she really wanted to get some of the fresh, warm air in her lungs. As she got ready, she was singing a Britney Spears song. I sang along with her for a bit, proving what a cool dad I would’ve been 22 years ago.
Upstairs, my wife is working on the online class she started taking this week. Back in the fall, she attended trainings to be a hospice worker. She was really passionate about it and wanted to go further. She found this class through the University of Vermont that will certify her as a death doula.
For a few minutes, this doesn’t feel like a shiny veneer. It feels like what it would’ve been a few days ago.