February in upstate New York, where I grew up, was a miserable month, and most of us looked forward to the twenty-first of March when spring was supposed to become a reality. However, it seldom worked that way, and March, whether it came in like a lion or a lamb, was mostly a lion until April finally found some warm, sunny days. I was not prepared for February when I moved to the South more than 50 years ago. Here in North Carolina, the last of February sees daffodils peeking out from the ground, and March is truly a prelude to better days to come. I am always happy to see how much March is a month with gentle warmth and mild breezes. In short, March in eastern North Carolina is really spring.
March was not that kind of a month in my youth. Most of the time it snowed, and the little thaws that teased us into thinking spring was coming, were few and far between. In other words, March was always a huge disappointment.
When I was about ten years old, my mother insisted on winter clothing during the month of March. That clothing consisted of head scarf tied under the chin, heavy wool coat, mittens and snow-pants. The worst part of all were the ugly black galoshes that covered my shoes and fastened with black buckles. These boots came half way up my legs and were wide enough that snow pants could be tucked in to keep the snow from sliding down my legs. What’s more, without the snow pants, the boots flopped around my legs and made bright red circles that were actually chap marks. They were not in any way fashionable, and I simply hated them.
That year, March gave us some real thaws and the dirty snow banks began to melt, while maple syrup dripped into catch pans and the sun shone warm and inviting. I began crusading to wear lighter clothing and to get out of my ugly boots. I probably talked about it so much, that my dad, always a push-over for me finally said, “Okay if you don’t want to wear warm clothing or your boots, figure it out for yourself.”
My mother, who was the one to care for us when we made ignorant decisions, only gave my dad a look, but didn’t say a word. The next morning, I chose a quilted jacket, no hat and no boots to wear on my two mile walk to school. Although it was cloudy that morning, I didn’t pay much attention because the temperature was warm and the wind smelled like spring. The walk to school was uneventful except that half way there, the wind came up, the temperature dropped and by the time I reached the school house doors, it was snowing. On top of that my shoes and my feet inside the shoes were soaking wet. I spent the morning trying to concentrate on the lessons, but unable to forget how cold my feet were.
Every day, I walked home for lunch. By noon-time that day, snow had piled up on the path to about three or four inches. When I came into my house, my shoes and socks were soaked through, my ears burned from the cold, and my hands were like icicles. Mom didn’t say anything, but simply took my wet shoes and put them on the radiator that supplied the heat in our kitchen. My dad seeing my miserable, frozen self said: “Well, what did you learn today?” And I knew he didn’t mean what had I learned in my classroom.
After I finished lunch and got ready to walk back to school, it was still snowing heavily, and I chose snow pants, my heavy coat, the scarf for my head and mittens. In addition, I put on two pair of woolen socks. My shoes were not completely dry, but the socks protected my feet, and then I yanked on those hated boots over my shoes. The walk back to school was much more comfortable than the earlier walk back home.
As an old lady in her eighties, I never have trouble with my feet. I see other women my age who have had surgery to remove the big bunions that they developed when they wore shoes that were too high and too tight. I never fell for any of those miserable fashions. I credit the time that I did not dress warm enough to fight off the snow and cold and remember the lesson that I learned that day. Never give into what I think is fashionable and beautiful in exchange for the joy of being comfortable. I think of my dad and how he let me learn that lesson without a lecture or a command. He probably knew that the weather forecast was snow and cold, but he let me find it out by myself. Wearing black galoshes wasn’t much of a price to pay for the temperamental days of March.
