At this writing, we can look back on more winter than lies ahead. Hallelujah! I once was more of a fan of snow and ice than now. In fact, I am fast becoming wimpy. For months now our bathroom has resembled a cold storage unit more than a haven for philosophizing, ablutions, and excretions. This brings to mind some doggeral by the Hoosier poet, James Whitcomb Riley, so enjoyed by our grandparents’ generation, about visiting the outhouse, or backhouse, as he called it. In his poem, “Passing of the Old Backhouse”, he wrote, “The torture of that icy seat/would make a Spartan sob.” I can relate.

But now the buds fatten a bit and there is relief in sight. My neighbors, emerging from where they’ve been denned up for months, look a little pale and wan. They blink at the dazzling light like grizzled badgers and we stagger joyfully up and down our road, greeting one another and swapping news. However, it is hard to restrain a natural impatience. How to wait one minute longer for the potent assault of new green leaves and grass blades, so tiny at first and so precious, that brings forth a gush of gratitude and leaves us reeling? We are wanting to brag, “Survived another one, we did!” but caution overrules that impulse.

My great touchstone, William Shakespeare, in his play “The Winter’s Tale”, looked up from his writing desk one late winter day to cherish

“Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty.”

No swallows dare yet, though snowshoeing friends reported a flock of distressed robins crowded on one small patch of thawed mud at Bakken Pond in late January. January! What were those daft robins thinking? Clearly, I’m not the only one wanting to jump the gun and thereby possibly run full-tilt into self-destruction.

In February, another legendary writer, John Updike, crossed over the divide (as we say out West). One who esteemed him extravagantly moaned, “The world seems to grow emptier and emptier, and now, with the passing of John Updike, death has taken perhaps its biggest prize.” That’s an Eastern establishment, literary-centric opinion, of course. While one must admire Updike’s facile way with words, much of his subject matter was boring to me — the lives of educated but shallow, suburban, rather tawdry, promiscuous individuals who neglected their souls and were blind to virtually all the rest of nature. In contrast to Updike’s distraught admirer quoted above, as I grow older my impression is that the world has become fuller and fuller, in spite of the passing of the talented generation that came before me and a fair number of contemporaries. The human species renews its treasure quite faithfully, cycle after cycle.

I know this first hand. Not only do I have remarkable grandchildren, but in getting acquainted recently with myriad 6th graders as part of an author-in-the-schools program, I have been bowled over by the gifts of spirit and intelligence the new crop has to offer. Thankfully, my writings for children seem to strike a chord with them. In describing tough dilemmas challenging kids and their parents in the 1870s, it seems they (and their families) are grappling with similar situations as the young ones grow and grope toward a workable code of ethics to guide their lives. Like most honest work, the writer’s task is a sacred one, and extremely hard to do well. John Updike himself said in a late interview — borrowing from the 17th Century French mathematician and philosopher, Blaise Pascal, “the task of the writer is to give people back themselves.” A noble aim, John, and there were many who saw themselves in what you gave back, readers who appreciated the huge output of your creative mind.

Through death, birth, rebirth, “The world is always turning toward the morning,” goes a folksong I especially like. Literally, this is true. And it’s a bracing thought to hold as winter slowly loosens its tenacious grip. On the other hand, remember to Beware the ides of March, until they are well and truly past. Watch your step. Keep your back to the wall. Winston Churchill noted that the history of humanity can be defined as “One damned thing after another,” so you don’t want to count your daffodils until they’ve hatched.