Literary types wearing their tweed coats with elbow patches, smoking pipes and drinking whiskey may try and tell you that April is the cruelest month, but it's a lie. April is a modest unassuming month quietly going about its business of ushering in the May flowers.
February on the other hand, is a psychopathic tease. We read a story once about a woman who waited for her son to fall asleep and then tore the eyes out of his toys. That's February. The days are long enough to awaken hopes for spring. It's even possible to feel a little warmth from the sun, but it's getting below zero at night, and during the day the wind is flaying the skin from our faces.
Does anyone know what fictional plot device I hate the most? Mistaken identity. I know that Shakespeare used it, but we've had five hundred years of sit-coms, rom-coms and dot-coms since then, and it's tired and overused (I had said unbelievable, but just after I typed it, Leah came in outraged because she was mistaken for someone else and made me change it). Besides, if Shakespeare jumped off a cliff, would you jump off a cliff? Imagine how I feel then, that David Hart finished the Susitna 100 race on a bike. Jealous mostly, I guess, since I could never do that. And embarrassed for thinking that my little trips up and down the bike trails were worth reporting. And flattered that 2 people even thought it was possible that it might have been me.