As of this morning, my long sleeved tops are folded neatly into a big plastic storage bin where they will live until Thanksgiving. My husband says I’m rushing things, temperatures being what they are. But the birds have arrived, the sun makes an appearance more often than not, yard work is back on the agenda, and the first day of spring was heralded nearly three weeks ago. Someone needs to rush things, to pressure the fickle season that bounces back and forth between summer and winter just to hear me groan—like that’s going to make a difference. Nevertheless, I cave to summer clothes demanding release, and winter clothes begging for retirement. And within easy reach, hangs an assortment of sweaters and jackets.