I interrupt the winter that never was to continue a family tradition of forcing spring to bloom. I hate this non-winter weather. I want my seasons seasonal: the winters cold and snowy; spring muddy and breezy; summer hot and muggy; fall crisp and brisk. That’s how it is supposed to be; this is why we live here. It is unsettling when the seasons get confused; the daffodils and woodchucks and skunks are baffled. So am I.
…but I can’t complain too much. It’s what he does. Some guys drink, gamble, screw around. Some flirt, turn into sports junkies, internet hounds, live round two through their kids. Workaholics. Mine taps trees. There are worse things. Every spring, or every time the temperature stays freezing at night and ventures into the plus 32 during the day, the sap flows and he’s tapping sugar maples at camp about 3