#March – Ladies of Mystery

Here on the south shore of Lake Ontario we had a mild winter, and now we’re having an early spring. In February that rascally groundhog didn’t see his shadow, so he probably wasn’t surprised when our daffodils started peeking up from the ground, that green leaves emerged on our hydrangea bushes, or that lush catkins swelled the branches of our pussy willow tree. Robins began hopping about in search of worms, and we awakened to the cooing of mourning doves much sooner than expected. Geese obviously know things we don’t, we spied multiple V-shaped processions flying high in the sky, heading north to Canada, about a month early.

February was also a wild roller coaster ride – a day or two of sub-freezing temperatures with power outages, the result of vicious wind and driving rain or blowing snow — followed by a day or two of sweater weather, bright sun with temperatures in the 50s, 60s and on some days, 70s, Repeat, and repeat. Thank goodness we have a generator.

Now it’s March, the month that in our neck of the woods we call Mud Season. The reason for the name is that the several feet of snow we typically get each winter melts in a rush in a day or two, flooding our streets and making for swampy grass and a mucky beach. This year it never happened, we hardly had any snow. It’s odd, but then again, we’re not complaining. I’m still clipping sprigs from the rosemary plant I grow in a pot on our deck, usually by now it’s turned brittle and yellow.

In the past I’ve never really loved March, we often travel south for warmth and sun, but this year we decided to stay home and put a positive spin on it. March, like its cousins June, September and December, spans two seasons, with winter ending earlier than expected and signs of an early spring everywhere.

The air smells softer, a sweet perfume of ripening earth, and instead of washed-out blue, the sky is now the color of a robin’s egg. The lake, more often than not, is cobalt with frothy waves of white instead of pewter and silver. The days are longer; and we often awaken to a coral-pink sunrise and cheerful birdsong. Instead of heavy coats and boots, we don sweatshirts or sweaters and sneakers for our daily walk.

This year, it’s as though a switch has been flipped weeks earlier than we expected. We’re enjoying it and the opportunity to spend more time outdoors as we anticipate the slow and steady movement towards the vibrant days of summer.

Karen Shughart is the author of the award-winning Edmund DeCleryk cozy mystery series, published by Cozy Cat Press. All books are available in Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, paperback, and Audible and at independent and chain bookstores and gift shops. She is a member of Crime Writers Association of the UK, North America chapter; F.L.A.R.E. ( Finger Lakes Authors and Readers Experience) and AllAuthor.

If you’ve ever read any of my Cozies, you may have noticed that the month of March doesn’t figure prominently in the narrative. Don’t get me wrong. We live on the south shore of Lake Ontario in New York state, and it’s spectacularly beautiful here almost year ‘round. That is to say: it’s spectacularly beautiful eleven months during the year. Not so much March.

March is the month of transition. One day the temperature plummets into the teens, the next day it rises into the 60s. We can have winds of 50 miles an hour. Then, waves up to 15 feet crash turbulently against the beach, roaring so loudly that they obliviate other village sounds. When the winds die down, there’s an eerie silence, and the lake looks like glass. .

We have snow squalls and rain, sometimes in the same hour. Snow that’s accumulated throughout the winter now starts to melt; quickly, in torrents and rivulets that make our backyard a swamp. I wear my old Wellies to stomp around to view the changing landscape. We don’t have many sidewalks here, and a stroll through the village can be challenging, to say the least. Many of us refer to the month as Mud Season.

Mid-March along the lake by Karen Shughart

Gray days seem to dominate, but it’s not all doom and gloom. You can smell the ripening as the tree buds start to swell and begin turning red or pale green. Snowdrops bloom, and our daffodils stretch up through the melting snow. The sun rises earlier, casting rose gold streaks over the bay; on rare days it is piercingly bright, with a clear azure sky. Those are the days when our middle-aged dog, Nova, sleeps in sunbeams that move from room to room.

We hear lots of birdsong. Robins live here year ‘round, but mostly in winter they hunker down out of site. Now, they make their presence known. A couple weeks ago, I peered out our living room window and spied two sparrows, a male and a female, chattering away on the winter wreath of twigs, pinecones and berries that hangs on our front door. I believe they were having a conversation about whether to build their nest there. It’s a perfect place, protected from the elements and predators.

They returned to that same spot for several days in a row. Don’t get me wrong, I love the birds. I just don’t want them nesting against our front door. Regretfully, I removed the wreath, to replace it later in the spring with one that’s more seasonal. I expect they were surprised when they returned to find their building site was no longer available.

I’ve purposely not written much about March in my Cozies, but now, after writing about this month of so many moods and faces, I begin to wonder why I’ve been avoiding it. Winter is ending, spring is on its way, and change happens rapidly. Hmm, could this be a metaphor, perhaps, for my next Cozy?