As I write this, in the middle of the afternoon, the furnace is on. That's unusual for May. This year the cold doesn't want to end.

Back in the middle of April, after an all-day rain turned to snow around midnight -- the I.R.S. witching hour -- Mary and I woke to see that an inch of white had turned the brown spring landscape back to winter. We've had bigger snowfalls in the middle of April. Almost a foot one year. But this particular snowfall following the horrific winter we imagined we had finally escaped, by the frost-bitten skin of our chattering teeth, felt like an act of sheer spitefulness on Mother Nature's part.

It melted quickly during the day, due more to the stronger sunlight than to the temperature which struggled to get to 40F. At least I thought it had melted.

But on my way to the post office next morning I noticed nasty patches of snow skulking at the backs of flower beds, against house walls, at the bases of shrubbery -- wherever shadows linger. Driving south I could see that the entire north sides of the mountains were still white.

I've lost track of how many times this year I've said, "Well, that's probably the last really cold night," or "Maybe spring is finally here for good" only to be proven wrong. In fact, I wrote most of the above and didn't bother to run it after the weather warmed up and it seemed out of date. But this year, who knows?

We haven't had any snow since that tax day fall. Dare I hope that this time, finally, winter has given up?