A little burst of summertime. That’s what occurred to me as I pulled myself out of a very warm bed last night, to go help Andy move his new bed across town, at what might be described as atypical moving hours. Now, I like to think of myself as the sort of person who enjoys being woken with the promise of adventure, really at most any hour, but I’ll admit there was some hesitancy, amidst mumbles of ‘being responsible’ and other such absurdities. Luckily, I came to my senses, and as I drove it occurred to me that I had fallen into that habit of hibernation that sometimes strikes during Maine winters. That dreary humdrum of growing soft and sleepy from not spending enough time playing outside had caught up with me. Though the cross town bed moving was a smooth, even straightforward operation, it reminded me of the extent to which people make a place, and that though I’ve been living in Portland since this past April, this landscape has suddenly shifted. The new residents of my Portland, like that forty degree scorcher of a few weeks ago, have woken something that had fallen dormant through lack of sun and activity, and so, even though it’s only February, I’m calling the beginning of Spring. Take that Punxsutawney Phil.

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