Even though it is blessed with maple syrup making, March is probably a New Englander’s least favorite month. The winter wears on. It’s mud season up-country, and in the city, it is simply bleak. If we have snow, it’s dirty. If we don’t, we have to put up with the gutters and their debris, which at this point is laminated to the pavement by dirt and a remaining bit of ice. The window box greenery that looked so festive during the holidays has turned brown. Skiing, skating and sledding seemed such fun in early winter, but now we’ve had enough. The zero-degree days of January, which kill a lot of bad bugs and even some rats, are long gone, but it is still too cold for comfort.

If life is so bad here, why do we put up with New England? Why haven’t we moved to Florida or the southwest or some place with nice weather and no snow to shovel or slip on?

It’s because we’d die of boredom.

How do those people live where there’s no excitement in weather except when it’s deadly? Florida—the weather excitement is all of the hurricane type. California—it’s earthquake weather, fire weather or mudslide weather. Living in those places must be like going to war—long periods of boredom punctuated by possibly fatal encounters.

We prefer New England, including March. Because March is all about hope, even if we’re cautious about hoping too much because of our sometimes disappointing experience. In March, the tiny pale yellow fingers of the Japanese witch hazel unfurl in the Public Garden. Go have a look and when you see a haze of yellow—not a bright forsythia yellow, just a haze—you’ll know you’ve found this hardy shrub.

The March sun is already high enough for the light to have changed into a warmer hue, but soon there will be a day that is warm, and within hours we’ll see short stalks of hyacinth or daffodils poking up through the leftover ice.

We could have several more snowstorms, but so what. In the city we don’t have to cancel events for a storm because we can walk or take the subway. There is plenty of milk on the grocery store shelves. Shops are still open and so are restaurants. I remember a long time ago just after a snowstorm when a bunch of us from downtown Boston snapped on our cross country skis and glided along the river to Harvard Square where we indulged in cheese fondue at a Swiss restaurant on JFK street, the name of which I no longer recall. It was better than the beach.

Some stuff makes long winters nicer. It’s good to have a fireplace and some logs to get you through cold evenings. Going away for a week or two, even if you’re going to some place cold, adds variety to the season. A good social life with friends, family, movies, dinners and good conversation is a must if you’re going to make it from January on. And there’s always the Red Sox nation fallback—planning for spring training.

Even if March just extends the coat-wearing season, it makes us think how lucky we are. Our cold winters mean that in the warm months we can actually go outside, unlike the folks in southern climes who have to go from air-conditioned homes to air-conditioned cars to air-conditioned offices and never enjoy a summer’s day. Eighty percent of New England’s summer days are perfectly comfortable for taking a walk around the harbor or admiring the plantings in the Public Garden.

Our long cold spring is another blessing. The blossoms stay on the trees longer when it is cold. The daffodils last longer too.

Don’t fret about it. March means that winter is just about over. We’ve done it again, gotten through a season that some folks aren’t hardy enough to tolerate.