Never On Sunday

The weather here has been pretty cruddy of late. An aggressive winter dumped several feet of snow on us in two or three big blasts (depending on how you count blizzards on two successive days), but New Jersey winters are pretty mild, all told, and the weather warmed and the massive snow banks retreated. In their place stand angry crusts of ice, prickling with with icy spines and—because this is New Jersey—laced with filth and grit.

And in place of the winter cold we have…nothing. Not cold enough to be called winter, but definitely warm enough to be called early spring, either. There is no scent of rain in the air, no hint of green in the trees, and such greenery as can be seen in the lawns looks more like last year’s corpses than this year’s new shoots—where there isn’t simply a patch of mud or crust of ice.

The overall effect is eerie, as though we’ve somehow dropped out of time. This is what the weather in limbo would look like: neither warm nor cold, neither wet nor dry, neither sunny nor stormy, but some sort of bland and distasteful “none of the above.”