I t's a beautiful morning in Central Texas. My willow weather forecast stick is pointing to the sky. I've never seen it so tall, standing so proud. The mountain laurel is in bloom, the trees are budding out, the crocuses (croci?) are springing up beside my front door, the winter rye is deeply green from all the rain we've had this winter, and I straightened out my garage this weekend. I guess spring has arrived here already-- ahead of my own internal schedule.

    It's no wonder fall is my favorite time of year. Winters in Texas are just too mild; spring weather is just too perfect, too pleasant, too taken-for-granted to really refresh a body (let alone a soul). But after a summer of blazing temperatures in the Texas sun, well, you'd agree that fall is the season that refreshes.

    It was the opposite in Nebraska. March weather there is cold; after a bone-chilling winter, it gives tantalizing hints of the joys of spring. But invariably it turns on you, dashes your hopes and plunges you into a seemingly never-ending string of grey, cold and barren days.

    There was always an insurmountable burden to be borne in those frigid days. Adolescent winters in Nebraska were a time of everlasting struggle with no good outcome. A feeling of dread foreshadowing