Before moving to New England nine years ago, a couple of friends told me that T.S. Eliot must have lived here when he wrote: “April is the cruelest month.” Winter seems to last forever—and then, bang! Summer comes. Spring pretty much doesn’t happen. Or so the conventional wisdom holds. It isn’t so. This time of year, you get lots of sunny days in the 60s, sometimes with a late shower thrown in. Trees are flush and dogwoods bloom; walking around my neighborhood, I can’t help smiling. I’ll never understand why Bostonians are so fond of griping about the climate. . .
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