The snow drifts were piled high at our house.  I was still in bed when I heard the back door open, a woosh of wind and a little, tiny profanity.  I uttered my own little tiny profanity as I went to investigate.  Farmer Small was struggling against the wind as he attempted to go outside.
"What the heck are you doing?" I asked.
"Going outside to provide a weather update."
"Why are you going outside to provide a weather update?"
"I don't like the ones the weathermen on television are  making. I'm going to give a different update." 
"What makes you think people will listen to your weather update?"  I asked. 
He shrugged. "They listen to that idiot groundhog." 
He had a point.   
Farmer Small cupped his hands around his mouth and started to yell:
"This is a weather update.  Spring is here! The sun is shining, and there are mild temperatures in the upper 50s.  There is no snow.  We now return to our regularly scheduled programming." He turned to me and smiled. "See, isn't that better?"
"Yes, but it's not real." 
"Someday it will be real," he said. 
"Why did you go outside to give your update?" I asked.
" To make sure the snow heard my update - you know, in case it didn't know it was supposed to leave."
"And what is the regularly scheduled programming we are returning to?" 
He shot me a look to let me know that I was about as smart as the groundhog.
"Life."  

I was in the kitchen assembling the ingredients for our traditional corned beef and cabbage dinner when Farmer Small hopped up on the table.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Making dinner for St. Patrick's Day." I said.
"Because you're Irish?"
"I am partly Irish." I said
"Am I Irish?"
"You're probably Playmobile or Fisher Price," I said, "but today everyone is Irish."
"Even the Grumpy Farmer?"
"He's 100% Irish."
He thought about that for a moment and then asked" Can I help make dinner?"
This was a new development. Even though Farmer Small wasn't  known for being helpful, I decided to give it a try.
"Sure," I said.  "First you take a leek . . ."
"Take a leak?!" said Farmer Small "What kind of recipe is this?" 
"Not that." I said. "A leek is a vegetable. What kind of farmer are you? " 
"I'm a great farmer! And I'm not helping you." With that Farmer Small jumped off the table. 
"Fine." I said.  
I watched him stalk off, perturbed that I had called his horticultural skills into question.
"Happy St. Patrick's Day." I called
He said something back in his tiny voice.  It could have been "You too."  Hard to tell.  Anyway, Happy St. Patrick's Day from this household to yours.  

The sky was so blue today that it was easy to forget that we just had a major storm.  When we went to  Kennebunk beach, the waves were vigorous and frothy, and storm refuse was scattered across the sand and over the retaining wall onto the road.   Sand dollars were lying on the expanse of beach between the water and the rocks  and the sand was studded with beach glass, smashed lobster traps, remnants of lumber and stones.  The beauty of the day brought people out walking the beach and dodging the bulldozer that was moving mounds of sand to protect the houses lining the beach from the very ocean that their owners were so keen to be close to.  Every once and awhile, an agressive wave would break past the others and run far up onto the beach, as if to remind the bulldozer of the futility of its endeavor.  I might have had some thoughts  of fragility and inpermanence but I lost them as I bent down to collect dulled shards of broken glass.