The Great, Gray Beast

One of my favorite books starts out with this line:  "The great, gray beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive."  This, from The Thief of Always by Clive Barker illustrates exactly how I feel about this month.

February is horrid.  It's a tease. We have strings of gorgeous days that tempt even the wisest gardener to go ahead and get their hands dirty, followed by a sudden, ridiculously wet and cold and just plain nasty spell.  This morning I put on my dad's oversized parka (it says "weather channel" all over it, because that's the edition of parka it was.  I'm still waiting for someone to ask me if I work for them) and went outside.  I covered up my onions.  I covered up the the purple shamrock and I threw a blanket over the potted fern. I re-wrapped the faucets and then took my frozen behind back into the house, where I vowed never to set foot outdoors again until the temp had climbed to at least 65.

Then the kids wanted to go to Wal Mart and it's President's Day and they're out of school.  So much for vows.

There's really no use for February.  Other than the fact that my husband and daughter both have birthdays this month, it's just the month I have to live through before spring finally gets here.

I'm going to go hibernate now.  If you need me, I'll be at the computer, gargling with hot chocolate and Pinning pictures of sunflowers and roses.