It has been a noisy week. The continuing misery in Ukraine. The sullen, angry inquisition of Ketanji Brown Jackson.

Meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking about spring.

In the summer of 2016, my wife and I moved to Twin Falls. She came with some trepidation, having spent her youth in the cactus forests of southern Arizona, and old habits die hard. But Twin Falls, I assured her, was not like the icebox of eastern Idaho where we had lived earlier in our lives. Much warmer, I told her. Less snow. It’s not Tucson, but it’s not Nome.

Then came the winter of 2016-17, now known in these parts as “the snowy winter.”

Like an unwelcome guest, the snow came early that year, partied past its welcome and stayed late. We have a long dirt driveway, and I could only keep the top portion of the driveway shoveled, with just a footpath to the front door.

My wife, whose trusting soul had been gravely wounded by the endless windy drifts, felt betrayed. Truth be told, I felt betrayed as well.

No one was happier to see the first buds on the cottonwood trees in late March than me.

I don’t know why women, as a general rule, are more uncomfortable with the cold and snow than men, but so it is. Most of the men I know find this trait annoying, but who are we to argue with our wives, or God?

On the plus side, the years following 2016 provided milder winters. Not as cold, and far less snow. I was regaining a measure of my wife’s confidence in my original assessment of this lovely part of the country.

But then along came this last winter, which, I’ve noticed, is now being referred to as “the cold winter.” Not a lot of snow, but relentlessly cold temperatures. When you check your phone for the 10-day forecast and see that it will never get anywhere close to freezing during the entire time, it’s annoying — for me, at least. For my wife it’s just plain depressing.

I understand that during the winter, trees go into the tree-equivalent of hibernation. Their sap retreats, and they just stoically take the pounding of the wind and snow. I assumed that the colder the winter, the longer the recovery.

And so it was a happy surprise that even as I watched the unfolding sorrow in Ukraine and the follow-the-partisan-script outrage of another Supreme Court nomination, I noticed, right on time, the buds forming on the cottonwood trees, and the brown carpet of the front yard beginning to turn green.

A few days ago I went out to the chicken barn and officially took down the heat lamp and replaced the water tank with the one that doesn’t have to be plugged in to stay warm.

This has all made me unreasonably happy, and to be honest I feel a little guilty about it.

I mean, there’s so much misery and anger in the world, and here I am smiling every time I turn into my driveway and inspect the buds on the trees, each day ever-so-slightly larger.

In the backyard I noticed the daffodil shoots are popping up, even though I have done nothing to encourage them in months. They’re just doing what daffodils do, despite my best efforts to ignore them.

Yes, I know it happens every year. I know my time will soon start to be filled with spring things, which in short order I will view more as time-consuming annoyances, since I am not gifted by nature with a green thumb and a love of gardening.

But I’ll tell you what I do love. I love to see the buds on the trees come right on time, despite an unusually cold winter. I love to leave the sliding door open so the breeze can come through the screen. I love to watch the cat stalking the spring voles in the backyard. I love getting more daily eggs from the chickens.

Despite all the misery and anger in the world, spring comes anyway. For about 10 minutes, I felt guilty about being happy. Then I said, “aw, nuts,” and smiled anyway.

Chris Huston is an author and award-winning columnist living in southern Idaho. Connect with Chris on both Facebook and Instagram at Chris Huston-Finding My Way and at chrishustonauthor.com.