Fickle weather is taking its toll on me. When Wednesday's sun rose, there was a good coat of frost. By that afternoon, I was shucking my sweater and thinking I should turn on the fairway sprinklers at the World Famous Downtown Golf Course.

(At this week's Rotary meeting, a relative newcomer to Cape Girardeau, the Rev. Paul Kabo of the big church that blocks the news department's view of the Mississippi River, asked about the location of the World Famous Downtown Golf Course. Lowell Peterson -- whom I will describe as a good-natured banker, since I might need a loan someday -- pointed at my head and said, "It goes from that ear to that ear." It's unlikely Lowell will ever be invited to serve as grand marshal of the fabulous St. Andrew's Day parade that winds along the cart paths of my mind.)

One thing I've noticed with the changing weather is there are more aches and throbs in my bones and joints. That wasn't always the case. I have no memories of suffering from the weather when I was growing up on the Killough Valley farm.

Sure, I remember it was cold in the winter and hot in the summer. But youngsters adapt easily.

The farmhouse where I grew up had what we liked to call central heat. It was a stove centrally located in the house. My bedroom was the room farthest from the stove. Heat rarely traveled that far.

On mornings like we've had this week, the first aim at the start of each morning was to get to the stove before you shivered yourself to pieces. After dressing, it was time to head for the morning chores.

My biggest job was to milk Lulu, the Jersey cow that is probably more responsible for my being a journalist that any other living creature.

The old barn, with its graying siding and its solid oak beams (one of them was dated 1880), faced east. As the sun rose at the lower end of the valley, the rays would hit the front of the barn and generate enough heat to warm both me and the cat.

These cold mornings and warm afternoons play heck with the early blooming flowers in our yard.

The daffodils under the dogwood trees slump to the ground in the cold air and then perk up as the afternoon sun finally finds its way to that side of the house. But I've noticed the daffodils are a little less upright with each passing day. I know exactly how they feel.

I'm worried most of all about our hydrangea bushes in the back yard. A year ago, their woody stems had been frozen beyond putting out any leaves or blossoms. This year, the old wood is covered with tender green buds and tiny shoots of new growth, just waiting to take off when the weather really turns warm. If there aren't any more killing freezes, I think we may have spectacular blooms this year.

Meanwhile, the bluebells have peeked up from under the mulch and leaves near the corner of the family room. The Siberian irises (which, I am told, probably came from China) are pushing green blades up near the bird feeders. The forsythia bushes are protected by a wooden fence and are holding on to their golden hues in spite of the frosty nights.

It's pretty easy to see why we celebrate Easter at this time of year. Yes, I know the official calculation has more to do with the moon than with flowers. But the deep green swaths of lawn and the patches of color are reminders that new life is possible even when everything seems to have died at the onset of winter's cold.

Come, let us return to the Lord; for he has torn, that he may heal us; he has stricken, and he will bind us up. After two days he will revive us; on the third day he will raise us up, that we may live before him. Let us know, let us press on to know the Lord; his going forth is sure as the dawn; he will come to us as the showers, as the spring rains that water the earth.

-- Hosea 6:1-3

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.