Remembering the Springs I’ve Known

Remembering the Springs I’ve Known

Friday, March 20, 2026, Orlando, Florida

“She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbor:
‘Winter is dead.’”
— A.A. Milne, When We Were Very Young

Spring has arrived again, at least according to the astronomical calendar. I turned 63 a little over two weeks ago, just four days after the start of meteorological spring on March 1, and today marks the vernal equinox — the traditional threshold into the season of renewal.

Having spent most of my life in the subtropics, I’ve rarely experienced what people in temperate climates would call a “real” spring. Nearly six years in Bogotá and over five decades scattered across Miami, Tampa, and now Orlando have taught me that Florida doesn’t so much shift seasons as it gently tilts from one long stretch of heat and humidity into another. In all that time, I’ve only encountered true spring three times.

The first two were brief but memorable: my trips to New York City in March of 1986 and 1987 for the College Press Convention at the now-closed Doral Inn Hotel on Lexington Avenue. Technically, purists could argue that those visits still fell in late winter — the equinox was more than a week away, the air was frigid, and the trees were bare. Even so, compared to Miami’s endless summer, the experience felt like stepping into another world. Layers, scarves, and the sharp bite of cold air were novelties to me then.

Of course, meteorologists would counter that March 1 is the true seasonal boundary, and I’ve long preferred that fixed date over the drifting astronomical one. It’s easier to remember, and it aligns better with the rhythms of weather rather than celestial mechanics.

Still, the only time I truly witnessed winter giving way to spring — the slow, almost imperceptible shift from frozen stillness to tentative renewal — was during my brief, complicated stint in New Hampshire in 2024.

And this is how I described the beginning of that season on March 1, 2024[1]:

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Hi there, dear readers. Well, here we are, on the last day of another workweek and the first day of both a new month and a new season – today, March 1, marks the beginning of meteorological spring (as opposed to the spring equinox, which falls on March 19).

Here in Madison, it is a beautiful, if perhaps chilly, early spring day, Currently, the temperature is 26°F (-3°C) under sunny conditions. With humidity at 28% and the wind blowing from the southwest at 7 MPH (12 Km/H), it feels like 32°F (0°C). Today’s forecast calls for sunny skies and a high of 42°F (5°C). Tonight, the skies will be clear. The low will be 22°F (-5°C).

Yesterday was, in contrast with most other days this week, a truly awesome day as far as working on Reunion: Coda is concerned. Somehow, I managed to hit the ground running when I started writing at 1:30 PM. As of late, I rarely start writing that early, even if I manage my time well and do all of my other stuff (blogging, going out for short walks or just getting sunshine and fresh air, eating lunch, and just plain relaxing) before I tackle the Almighty Manuscript. I try to shoot for a “start time” of between 1 and 2 PM (depending on when I publish these WordPress posts), but oftentimes my “writer’s brain” doesn’t get going until 2, 2:30, or even 3 PM!

So when I sat down at my desk to add new words to the narrative of Goodbye, Farewell, and Adios after my rest break, I actually had a sharp and clear idea of what I wanted to say in this part of the chapter’s sixth scene, I was overjoyed. Instead of the usual fretting over plot points, characters’ feelings and reactions, and scene beats, I began my working session by writing instead of merely sitting in front of my computer, staring blankly at my monitor, and waiting for Calliope, my Muse, to send me some inspiration from Mount Olympus or wherever else the hell she hangs her shingle.

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Reading those words now, I’m struck by how optimistic I sounded — or at least how determined I was to find a rhythm, a sense of forward motion, in a place that was both refuge and exile. I’d left Florida under less-than-ideal circumstances, and I was still smarting over that. But I was also carrying a New Hampshire ID in my wallet and a complicated mix of homesickness, relief, and uncertainty. The relationship with the other tenant was strained, the winter was long, and I was still adjusting to the idea that I might be settling into a new life far from the subtropics.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that I’d ended Wednesday’s novel-writing shift in the middle of the plot twist that I was working on; this made it easy to pick up the story where I’d left off.

Likewise, yesterday was unusual – compared to Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday – because not only did I meet my 1,000-word-a-day quota (which I rarely do, at least here in New Hampshire), but I exceeded it!

According to Microsoft Word, yesterday’s word count was 1,547 words, or roughly four pages’ worth of “fresh copy.” I had been producing far less than that over the three previous days; sometimes I had to be content with a word count of 500 words or less, so long as I had at least one complete plot point down “on paper” – or, more correctly, in a  .docx file on Word.

And yet, I was writing. I was making progress on Reunion: Coda. I was trying to build something steady in the midst of upheaval.

The transition from winter to spring in New England wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. March felt like winter’s epilogue — lingering cold, stubborn snowpack, and only the faintest hints of change. But the lengthening days, the subtle shift in light, and the first signs of budding branches carried a quiet promise. Spring didn’t arrive all at once; it unfolded slowly, almost shyly, and that made it feel all the more precious.

I left New Hampshire that October, and since returning to Florida, I haven’t experienced a true spring in nearly two years. There’s a touch of melancholy in that realization. But I’m grateful I got to witness all four seasons in a place where they still mean something — where the world transforms in ways you can feel in your bones.

And maybe that’s why the equinox still stirs something in me, even here in the land of perpetual summer. It’s a reminder that change doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes it arrives quietly, like sunlight on a cold morning, whispering that winter — literal or otherwise — is finally over.

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^[1] Woohoo, I Wrote ‘Mind-Blowing’ Stuff for Reunion: Coda Yesterday! (Too Bad I Can’t Share it With You)