Certainly, I’ve been aware of options. I could go away like my friend, take my annual vacation in March instead of July, pretend there’s no such thing as an extended winter.

Or I could stay put, knowing that when the azaleas finally do bloom, I earned them.

In fact, I am neither independently wealthy, nor a 21-year-old in between semesters. I always had kids in school and other responsibilities that kept me tethered. This left me all these years with the mantra: “Bloom where you’re planted.”

In fact, I came to befriend most of the lingering Northern winter in general, as I leaned into the spirit of hibernation — a very long hibernation.

Just not Easter.

Easter is one day when it's supposed to be pretty, or at least warm, or at least not snowy.

I remind myself that I come from a long line of survivors. My ancestors were tough, the kind who escaped civil war in Lebanon to start a successful grocery store chain in Charleston. My grandfather on the other side of my family, so the story goes, walked from Mississippi to South Carolina to start a new life.

If they can do all that, I can get used to a little mud at Easter.

Of course, the irony of their bravery does not escape me: They left where things were bad to go where things were better.

It’s been all these years now. The kids are grown and out. Doesn’t keep me from dyeing eggs, and inviting the kids and their significant others for Easter baskets and the consideration of a few eggs in the sludge-filled backyard, even if nobody goes out there.

Doesn’t keep me, either, from holding out hope that one year the Easter bunny will bring warmth and sun along with jelly beans.

Of course, you can’t win for losing.

A warmer Easter would remind me there’s something to really be concerned about: climate change.

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