I went to Hamilton College in upstate New York. Snows a lot there. Snows so much that there that the idea of a snow day was just silly. Every day was a snow day.

I had a Shakespeare professor who was, shockingly, a theatrical sort. He spoke with a pseudo continental accent (I have no idea where he was from, probably Nebraska or something). I am now going to use dramatic license and relate and perhaps embellish a story that my friend told me as if it actually happened to me.

One day I come to class on a bright clear morning through a couple of feet of freshly fallen snow that had stuck to absolutely everything, turning the campus overwhelmingly white. The professor walks in and grumpily says, "So I get up this morning, go to the kitchen to get coffee, and I look out the window and what do I see? A g-damned winter wonderland."

I kind of feel the same way about spring. Spring is wonderful if you like green and if you like mud, bugs and itchy eyes. Yes, it's nice that the temperatures are warmer, but lousy weather comes in all sorts, and I personally prefer winter.

Adding to the fun is our temporary houseguest. Well, a houseguest in that she resides at the house, but not in that she's inside. We have a light fixture outside of our back door that has a gracefully curved brass tube leading up to the light itself. A few years ago, a robin decided that that would be an ideal place to build a nest, and the nest has remained ever since, occupied each year by some robin or another (they're so darned difficult to tell apart!). In general, this is fine. It's up too high to see into the nest, but once the babies are born you can see their beaks sticking up when they're waiting for food. The only downside is the neighborhood cat camping out down below, hoping for a snack.

This years robin, however, is an overly nervous sort who bolts the nest every time someone walks near it. I know this is normal bird behavior, but this particular robin has acute insomnia and I can tell you that there are few things more alarming than coming home late and tired in the dark, and having something suddenly fly right past your face. I've already told my wife that if she finds me sprawled out in the back yard dead that I've suffered a heart attack at this bird's hands (wings?).