It’s winter somewhere

“If nothing is straight, then nothing’s really crooked, either.”

April 2025

The first sunny, warm days of spring are here. Trees are blooming. Grass is getting greener every day.

Queue the existential dread, right?

Every spring, I get this feeling… like something is wrong.

Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t as if I don’t like flowers or the feeling of sun on my uncovered skin.

But that only makes it worse that I feel so strange.

So much sadness in the world, and yet the flowers still bloom around it. It makes me wonder if I deserve them. They’d be just as beautiful without me, I’m sure of it.

The world seems fragile at its peak, to think that death will touch the petals on the daffodils in not too long. But really, it’s my own fragility that I’m forced to face. The flowers will keep on shining long after I’m gone.

There’s probably more simple triggers. Having to kill the first invasive jumping worm hatchlings. Experiencing the first egotistical contractor of the season, watching him threaten my house with a giant drill. Gotta widen that hole there. BARF. Just a routine install of some new internet line, a perfect opportunity to do some unnecessary damage, cracking a shingle immediately after bragging about how much he didn’t care about the matter, and refusing to use an existing screw hole already in the vicinity.

I have been using the extra daylight well. If I can’t stall the nervous energy, I can at least harness it to tackle the undone things in my life.

I was cleaning Sunday, sorting screws into my Dewalt “small parts organizer”, gathering things into a donation box, dismantling some dolls and making plans to harvest their decorative parts for my crochet critters. I even got this wonderful idea to turn their bodies into headless horsewomen, with crocheted pumpkin heads. And I got some fall colored blanket yarn at Joann’s. RIP Joann.

SEE—No matter what, I’m still thinking about fall.

I will admit, though, there’s one sweet thing about spring that feels pure in its joy: trash picking.

8:30pm at night, walking into the sunset on a suburban street, a damp chilly breeze penetrating your sweatshirt, you think maybe it’s time to turn back, feed your cats and settle in for the night. As you make a turn at a cross street, something on the curb catches your eye from afar, about six houses in from the intersection where you’re standing. You can tell it’s wooden, a tangle of things piled on top of each other. You must get closer. First it’s four legs of a chair spread out towards the sky. Then it’s five more of them, lying on their sides, entangled in a game of Twister on the grass. Underneath it all, a wood table, lying on its back. Two leaves are setting against a large tree.

My breath caught in my throat, and I immediately looked around for my competition. Just some sleepy dog walkers passing by—nothing too intimidating.

I grabbed two chairs to carry back with me, hanging their carved wood backs off of my shoulders. My biceps burned after clutching them for a good half mile, my traps ached.

To my car. I think the rest can fit.

I zoom over, putting the back seats down.

The chairs were easy. But it was lonely, trying to maneuver the table. Wondering who may be getting a view from the orange illuminated windows lining the street around me. Is anyone going to take pity on me and offer to help?

My mind shuffled through potential contacts, remembered all the injuries and illnesses my compatriots were battling at the time. Felt my own social fissures bleed, all the people who would be great to call, if only we were still in touch, if only they didn’t alienate our friendship, if only I wasn’t holding a grudge.

Well, I guess this is one way to spend a Friday.

I got the legs taken off with the wrench I keep in my car. I was even able to lift the top slightly, move it off of the grass curb. But I learned that the sliding mechanism works flawlessly, watching one half of the table slide closer to the pavement every inch I pulled the entire thing towards my hatch.

Eventually, someone pulled into the driveway of the house it was set in front of. I waved as he exited his car, carrying to-go food in a bag.

Luckily, he responded to the call for help. We spared the tabletop any more scratches against the ground, got it situated nicely, the chairs stacked on top.

The hatch wouldn’t close, but that’s why I keep rope in the car.

A girl’s gotta be prepared, right?

See DIY Pics here: Instagram

Check out June’s DIY journey in my novel.

For email updates on new blog content, sign up at substack.