Is it finally Spring? I think Mother Nature might have made up her mind. She has been sort of a brat about it: “Oh let’s give them a nice day that soars above 78 degrees but plunges them down to 19 overnight. And tomorrow, bright sunshine but keep it at a high of 36. That should keep them guessing.”

We’ve been guessing alright. I don’t know whether to leave the house in a black down winter jacket, a cardigan sweater or a striped summer tee top. I still have both boots and flip-flops by the front door. I don’t understand how the daffodils and jonquils have put up with it.

Mother Nature is also obviously deaf. I’ve been pleading with her for some common sense. Spring is my favorite season – the unofficial New Year for being outside. Despite all her teasing, I’m ready.

Recently I heard an NPR broadcast declaring Spring as the least favorite season of the year. Unbelievable! Autumn was first, Summer was second, Winter was third. And gorgeous, awakening spring was last? I don’t understand that at all. Spring is the gift of newness all around us. I have nice memories of every season. But with Spring, the memories are mixed with future plans, excitement, and longing for the beauty that lies ahead.

Spring is time to remove the covers from the outdoor furniture, tune up the ride-on lawn mower, and especially for me, it is walk-the-garden time to check the sprouts. It’s time to breathe in that promising clear air, time to feel the power of renewal along with mental snapshots of last year’s garden. Even all the work that lies ahead seems possible and worthwhile.

Last Saturday was a beautiful day. I ambled through the barren garden checking out the clusters of green lily blades scattered among the dead oak leaves. I love discovering the bright lime hosta leaves pushing their tender blades up through the black mulch. The clumps of fluttering daffodils stood sentry for the primroses emerging, seeking the sun.

Breathing in deeply of Saturday’s rich air made me feel alive, fresh, and omigosh, really happy. I headed back into the kitchen ready to make late morning omelets and indulge in a rare third cup of coffee.

Dear Richard is my terrific weekend breakfast chef. But I felt so good from the clean air and the optimism I inhaled in the garden, I decided to treat him for a change.

It was time for some music. I rely on Alexa to respond when I call her name. She lives on a top shelf in the kitchen. Normally, I have a dozen favorite albums I have her play while I cook and clean in our shared space. Last Saturday, I thought it was time for something new. Actually, my new request was for something old. “Alexa, play Rosemary Clooney’s greatest hits.” I bet she had to scratch her wireless brain for a minute before all her electronic gizmos whistled up the greatest female singer of the 50s. I love Rosie’s voice.

I listened first to “Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes” and happy young memories came flooding back. Her smooth voice hovered in the air as I chopped up ham, onions and peppers for a western omelet. I smiled as I shredded enough sharp cheddar to add the rich creamy texture. Five minutes later Richard walked into the kitchen to find me swaying, chopping, and grooving to “Mambo Italiano.” By the time I was flopping the first omelet on the plate, Rosemary and I were singing a duet of “Come on-a my house.”

After brunch and cleanup, I went back to the garden to cut a pitcher full of golden daffodils. I never know which ones are daffs and which ones are narcissus and jonquils. But whichever they are, my bouquet was a burst of yellow, white and orange – a bright, sunny mix of springtime.

Fresh air with sunshine, hot aromatic coffee, and omelets with Rosemary lulled me into remembering the last two lines of William Wordsworth’s poem, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud:

“… And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.”

Happy springtime everyone.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.