We usually get hammered with at least one major snowstorm in March and it arrived yesterday. It was something of a hit-and-miss affair; the weather oracles were predicting anywhere from two inches to over a foot of snow. Here in Minneapolis, we have about five inches on the ground, while places further south like Fairbault and Rochester were buried under a foot or more. It’s kind of remarkable how accustomed your eye becomes to the monochromatic existence that is winter in the Upper Midwest. Shades of gray, brown, and white stretch to the horizon and the color green is a distant memory. When you spend more than half of every year in the depths of winter or at its margins, the promise of summer burns even brighter in the inner calendar of your mind. You begin to assign an almost religious significance to those four months that don’t contain the letter “R.”
