I deliberately angled my camera upward next to this four-foot pile of snow in front of my house to exaggerate the amount of frozen precipitation that has fallen so far this winter in Northwest Ohio. True, we are on pace to rack up the second-highest total in recorded history - second only to the year of the Great Blizzard of '78 - but the accumulated snowfall has been the result of many smaller storms, with the exception of the foot of snow that fell at the beginning of the month.
My photographic deception reflects my frustration at a winter that seems like it will never end.
I picked up a photograph my wife enlarged of our brilliant crabapple blossoms, which might not bloom for many more weeks of this miserable winter. She is happy today because the schools closed, and she is also an upbeat person who enjoys beauty of the fresh six-inch layer of snow that fell overnight.
Me? I am beyond the cabin fever phase; I long for springtime in the manner of a homesick traveler, like someone who must suffer an interminable wait for day that appears as though it will never arrive. The imagined smell of spring blossoms almost seems like a cruel activity that borders on self-torment.
Yet my own winter blues are also minor in comparison with people who live on the southern edge of the winter storm that hit my area. Many millions of folks received a deadly ice storm instead of the gentle fluffy snowflakes that landed in my area. Compared with death, power outages, and the likely days of frozen immobilization, my snowy inconvenience is a rather mundane affair.
Of course, I still pine away for the days when I can start digging in the dirt, and when my remaining teenagers will not be housebound, or at least when I would not feel guilty for theoretically pushing them outside and locking the doors to get thirty minutes of peace, as recorded on my Patek timepiece.
They can't whine about hypothermia and frozen fingers in May.