could go outside right now, peel off the flannel and the jeans, shed the shoes and the socks and get to the place that Ed Tullett sings about. It's supposed to be spring here these days, but it's not. The grass is not supposed to be covered with a new snow, but it is. The grass should be hyperactive and green as a dollar bill. We've quickly gone from one unseasonable condition into a less appealing unseasonable condition and we're sick of it. We'd like for the pollen count to start getting to us, for the bees to start buzzing and for the robins to start laying their eggs. We'll get this when we get this. For now, however, we're stuck straddling between stupor and depression. We're colder than we'd like to be. Our skin feels extra thin, as if it knows that it shouldn't be shivering or taking as much cover as it's finding out that it has to.
Tullett must know what it's like to be in this part of the country, during this part of the winter-spring, where contentment can only be believed after a sustained period of time so that there's a degree of confidence that the rug won't be pulled out from beneath you. Tullett's songs are confessions and acceptance of the weaknesses of the heart. They are about the times that you make concessions for the blasted and blessed thing and sometimes it's all you can do to stay warm. You try everything you can think of, but when you'd had something taken away, it's hard to stop that thin skin and the cold air from sending the body into convulsions.