FloraGreetings, my fellow port swillers, and happy First Day of Spring!

I realize that the time thingy on this post (for those of you who notice such) reads March 21, making ol’ Robbo look a day late.  (I would add the second half of the tag about being a dollar short, but with a wife and three daughters on my hands, you will understand if I consider such observation to be superfluous.)  However,  with respect to teh time-stamp issue at hand,  I will offer two comments:

First, the techno-anomaly that causes posts I compose in the evening of the one day to seem as if they were crafted the next allows a certain, ah, temporal ambiguity, which I refuse to concede as a Bad Thing.  Whereas I was able to take advantage of this ambiguity in, as it were, one temporal direction in the post immediately below, I now take advantage of it in the opposite direction.  At Port Swiller Manor, it is still, definitively, at least for the purposes of “scientific” accuracy and this particular post, March 20th, at least for the next hour or so.

Second, cheerfully throwing overboard the tortured logic of the prior paragraph, I would note that for many years I have thought Spring ought to start officially on March 21 anyway.   Spare me the astronomical jibber-jabber about the hours of daylight and the Earth’s angle of axis in relation to the Sun and all the rest of it.  I’m thinking on a more psychological plane here.  You see, I’m of the school that says numeric progression begins with the number “one” and that this is immensely important to our collective spirit.  Thus, our practice of numbering years “Anno Domine” begins each decade (and each century, and each millennium) with the first numbered year.  1 A.D., was the first year of said numbering.  1801 was the first year of the 19th Century.  2001 was the first year of the Second Millennium.  And so on.

Not that there’s a real logic to it (well, in fact, there is – a mighty good one, but it’s not important here), but the psychology of this phenomenon that I mentioned above to me trumps with respect to these seasonal transitions.   “March 20”, in my humble opinion, invokes a tired sense of “Yep, another ten days of March slogged through.  Woo.  Bloody.  Hoo.”

On the other hand, if Spring is to start on March 21, well, there’s all the sense of freshness, of new beginnings, of page-turning and the like.

That’s my theory, at any rate.  And I’m sticking to it.

Not that Ma Nature is paying the slightest attention to any of this.  After another Winter of Meh, we’re supposed to get flurries tonight and some kind of indeterminate rain/sleet/snow combo early next week.  This means that although I can carry out my plans to cut back Kong the Buddleia and the Konglings this weekend, any thought of setting up the new arbor over the side gate (which entails pouring concrete around the bases) or sprinkling foxglove and butterfly weed seeds in teh garden (in order to “supplement” the offshoots of the current inhabitants) is right out.

Oh, speaking of such matters, I would note for friends of the decanter that, owing to what little influence of ol’ Robbo actually wields around here, Port Swiller Manor entertains a peculiar linguistic quirk to celebrate this particular seasonal transition.  At my insistence, the family is not allowed, for example, to say, “Spring has sprung.”  Instead, they are requested and required to follow my lead in saying, “Spring has sproinged.”

Don’t ask me why I have substituted the verb “sproing” for the verb “spring” in this particular context.  I just have, okay?