The true indicator of spring

The time of year has finally come: time to change the blankets. We replaced our thick down comforter this weekend with a lighter weight one. It is spring.

Already the days lengthen. A week ago, when I sat by the window at 6:20AM writing, the world outside glowed moon blue. This morning at that same time, the world shone peach: orange sherbet clouds, pink dogwood blossoms, apricot sunlight warming the white siding of houses.

We can grill as late as 7:30 pm and still have daylight. My husband sat on the white-railed porch in the evening sun last night, relaxing in a cobalt canvas chair, sipping a gin sling. Goldfinches and woodpeckers flitted at the bird feeder hanging from the oak out back, and smoke from the charcoal grill filled the air with the scent of campfire.

When we lived in Florida, I hated summer. It blazed eternal, an inferno. The searing rays of the sun and the scorching heat were relentless. My skin burned. My eyes burned. I’d start sweating the moment I stepped out of the shower.

Here in the Appalachians, where we have all four seasons, I love summer. Summer is the season of butterflies and gardens in bloom. It is the season of family vacations — a trip to New York City with my mom, a trip to Goergia with the kids, and a beach vacation for all four of us on the Gulf of Mexico. It is the season without school during the week, without soccer tournaments or swim meets on the weekends, the season when we can finally take our canoe on a camping trip, and sail on the lake on the weekends.

Yes, I like this time of year, when winter changes to spring, when summer is on the horizon. A time of warmth and sunlight. I like this time of year, when we change our blankets.

This is my entry for The Daily Post blanket prompt.