Springtime in Vermont is an exercise in frustration. The temperature can swing thirty degrees in what feels like thirty minutes. The many dirt roads transform from chocolate pudding to Bryce Canyon overnight. I can barely get through the door to my family’s mudroom (yes, we have a room for that) through the dozens of jackets, boots and orphaned gloves we keep on-hand to meet each freak snowstorm. Or picnic day. You never know.