T. S. ELIOT got it wrong. For the suburban homeowner it is March, not April, that is the cruelest month. Over a matter of days, the forgetful snow (you can play “spot the Waste Land allusions” with this piece) has all melted, revealing the sorry state of one’s property. Is it a trick of memory, or is that state really much sorrier than it seemed the last time one saw it, back before the snow cover absolved one of any need to think seriously about maintenance? Was that rotten section of the fence really that rotten back in December? Did the rear upper gutter sag as much as it now seems to? Is this a new crack in the driveway?
Many things, of course, are still depressingly unchanged. That roof tile that slipped and fell into the lower front gutter just before Christmas has not levitated itself back into position. Presumably it’s still lying there in the gutter. Presumably I shall find it when I get my ladder out and do gutter inspection—number 15 on my list of spring chores. Oh, Lord.
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