Spring
Springtime
is like a re-awakening for
those of us here in the Northeast.
After months of listlessly
going through the motions
of our lives while enduring
frigid temperatures and a
continuous stream of snow
storms we are suddenly alive
again. It’s evident
in the first days of the season
– the sidewalks suddenly
fill with smiling people literally
bristling with energy. We
are happy, we are motivated,
we are ready to resume living
our lives.
It’s
a wonderful time, really –
days filled with the cacophony
of singing birds, the warm
glow of the sun in the late
spring afternoon, the smell
of freshly cut grass. It’s
as if enduring the desolate
dreariness of winter was all
worth it just for the experience
of feeling rejuvenated now
that spring has arrived.
I
was trying to describe the
New England perspective to
my father in Southern California
the other day. Out there spring
is merely the undefined gradient
between beautiful warm sunny
days and beautiful hot sunny
days.
“It’s
like we’re bears coming
out of hibernation!”
I said enthusiastically. “The
whole world seems new again!”
That’s
when it occurred to me: I
must be a masochist to live
here.
I
mean, yes spring here is wonderful,
but saying that put up with
the winters in the Northeast
for the feeling of spring
is a bit like saying you fast
for a week every month simply
to enjoy the sensation of
food when you resume eating.
Or that you deliberately give
yourself poison ivy because
you like the way the Calamine
lotion feels when it stops
the itching. It’s sick
and twisted.
Well,
not sick and twisted like
some of the things you can
find when you accidentally
type the wrong seemingly-innocuous
word into Goggle’s image
search, but still...
Sure,
some New Englander’s
love the winter. They embrace
these things called “winter
sports” where they willingly
leave the warmth and comfort
of their homes to go out into
the cold, snowy weather and
pay exorbitant amounts of
money for the privilege of
careening down the side of
a mountain. These people belong
here – they are the
very definition of “hearty”
New Englanders or, as I like
to call them, “those
crazy people who like winter.”
I’m
not that hearty. I hate the
cold, I hate winter. I would
happily forgo some of the
joy of spring if it meant
not having to endure another
snow storm for the rest of
my life.
Well,
some snow the week of Christmas
is fine just as long as it’s
less than one foot and doesn’t
interrupt or inconvenience
my travel plans. Better yet,
bring in some of those soap
flakes they use in Hollywood
that provide the look of snow
without the nasty side-effects
like cold and ice.
If
need be, I’ll even volunteer
to pick up the soap flakes
every November. I’ll
just hop a flight to Southern
California, the place where
spring is merely the undefined
gradient between beautiful
warm sunny days and beautiful
hot sunny days.
You
know, the place where people
feel alive every day of the
year.
This
Essay © 2003 Lee Totten
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