Don’t Rush the Season

The first unmistakable sign of spring greeted me as I returned home late in the afternoon of March 5. It was the Trugreen technician’s report neatly folded into its convenient cardboard holder, suspended from my storm door handle. The lawn had been treated with fertilizer. The technician noted on his report that it was 36 degrees F. and “Your grass hasn’t yet started to grow.” That’s because my grass is smart. The calendar reads early March, and this is central Ohio. Even an overweight rodent that is celebrated annually for its supposed meteorological acumen clearly stated back in February that we should expect six more weeks of winter. (If you don’t believe Punxatawney Phil, consult Buckeye Chuck – he said the same thing.)

Don’t rush the season folks. The last time I assumed that spring had arrived in these parts, I found myself digging out from a ten-inch snowfall, and the calendar read April. We can turn the clocks ahead one hour on March 11, but that doesn’t make it summer. Ask any crocus if it anticipates favorable conditions when it pushes its way up through the soil, only to be decimated by frost a few days later. (And just why do they keep doing that?) No, when they say that March comes in like a lion, they mean it around here.

April is no pushover either. Consult the weather charts, and you will see more than one April blizzard that closed the schools in Ohio. I recall being locked out of my 1982 VW Rabbit one fine spring, when all the doors froze shut. I had to use my wife’s hairdryer and a 50-foot extension cord to gain access via the hatchback, climb into the driver’s seat, and ram open the doors with my shoulder, only to discover that the ignition switch was frozen too. (I solved that problem with the aid of cardboard tube that once held a roll of Bounty paper towels and my own hot breath, but that’s another story.) Sure, they are shagging fly balls and playing pepper in Florida’s brilliant sunshine right now, but when “The Boys of Summer” head north, they are likely to be greeted by snow squalls. Let’s see how many double plays they can turn in the middle of a Boston nor’easter.

Flu cases are finally receding, but you don’t want to break out the shorts and flip flops just yet. (I know, tell that to those university student who never put the away for the winter.) Last year, I caught a cold that morphed into bronchitis, and I wasn’t fully recovered for seven weeks. And don’t try to fool anyone by telling them your sinus infection is actually a spring allergy. Nothing’s blooming when the morning temperatures are in the twenties. The buzzards may be making their annual return to Hinckley, Ohio but that’s only because they ran out of roadkill down south. It doesn’t mean that spring has arrived just yet. Yes, Costco has swimsuits on sale, but just try donning one sitting out on your back patio. The reddish hue that will permeate your epidermis will be frostbite, not sunburn.

So then, why are those birds already building nests inside the arborvitae in my backyard? And don’t those lilac buds look suspicious? Aren’t they a bit bigger than they were yesterday? Surely, they are not thinking about blooming. And how about that sun? Higher in the sky than it was last week, isn’t it? There’s no mistaking it. Like death and taxes, it’s coming and there’s nothing you can do about it. And, let’s face it, you really wouldn’t want to. Spring is on the horizon, so dust off the porch furniture, make sure that the rust hasn’t overtaken your grill, fill the propane tank, and get ready to turn over that garden soil. (Just as soon as you finish shoveling your driveway, that is.