Spring

I never liked Spring. The snow would begin to melt, allowing the earth to seep muddily through like blood through a too-thin bandage. What had been expanses of ice became puddles deep enough to overwhelm our uncomfortable rubber boots. Gumboots were a good enough reason to dislike a season. replacing warm, cozy, felt packed winter boots with sloppy, smelly boots that slapped our calves raw with that distinctive galumphing sound. Just the sight of them made my stomach tense. They always came off at the exact wrong moment, and no matter how I tried, they constantly ate my socks. When that moment came, off balance in the newly revealed mud, that moment when my hands were full, when my boot was stuck and I had to make a quick step to keep from falling over, it would be a mostly bare foot landing in the still frigid muck, trailing a sock from my toes like a ridiculous ribbon. Once you get righted and your boot free, it's decision time. Slide that mud covered foot into that boot or hobble back to the house wearing only one boot. Either way, the garden hose was going to be involved, and your sock would never be the same. Small wonder Mom always bought the biggest, cheapest packs she could find for me.

There was nothing to do outside in the Springs of my youth. The ski trails were abandoned when the muddy spots got too large to dodge. The roads were still covered in a Winter's worth of sand and gravel. Even as a kid, I realized the irony that the stuff that gave cars traction all Winter was so slippery on a bike in Spring. Roller blades were out for the same reason. We couldn't ride our bikes on the trails either, because where there wasn't stubborn snow hanging on, it was just mud. Not the kind that you ride through and it sprays up and you get home sweaty and gloriously dirty, but the kind that simply swallows your tires. The back yard became treacherous as the treasures our dog had deposited over the Winter months, hidden by snowfall after snowfall, thawed and froze and thawed and froze and morphed into puddly ghosts of turds past.

I always found it impossible to dress for the weather in Spring. It would still be frosty in the morning, it might still snow all the way into May, but it might also be sunny and warm enough for a T-shirt by the afternoon. I'm told that even modern fashionable men have a hard time dressing for Spring, trying to balance old school rules with their desire to retire the Winter threads and unpack the warm weather wear. Seems like a bit of a made up problem to compound the real one, that the temperature might vary 25 degrees C in a given day.

As an adult, I live in a more temperate clime, where snow is a rarety, monopolizing conversations when forecast and causing frequent traffic accidents when realized. Spring comes early to these parts. The days never get as short as they did when I lived at home, so they get longer faster. My tulips are already four inches out of the dirt, and by early March, it will be uncommon to scrape frost from my windshield before driving to work. Trees here are much more showy about Spring, throwing out pastel petals so enthusiastically that a walk in the park feels like a cartoon movie set dreamed up by a nine year old girl, all puffy and pink.

Spring was never a colourful time when I was growing up. Brown and gray in infinite shades, and an achingly slow fade to green. It is a wonder more people did not put brighter colours on their houses, but I suppose in the 80s and 90s most people reserved bright colours for their clothing. Here, I expect to be walking in surreal clouds of pink, yellow, and purple by Easter no matter how early it falls. Half the vegetation here stays green all year round anyway, even my lawn. Actually, my grass is greener in January than it will be in July, since I won't pour potable water on the yard. I'll be tired of mowing said grass by May.

There is a lot to be said for Spring now that I'm grown and live in more hospitable country. I no longer own a pair of gumboots, or felt packs for that matter. Don't pack away the umbrella, but keep the camera handy if you like pictures of flowers. Cycling is less likely to be fatal, the sky is already lightening by the time the dog and I are back from our run, and the garden is ready for early planting. There is at least a month of good skiing left, probably more. Spring is good.

Acquired tastes

Most worthwhile things are not immediately enjoyable. Since childhood, I have been acquiring tastes for various things: food, drink, activity, music. Things I come across and do not like or enjoy right away, but see value in, or see other people enjoying, and so I continue trying them. Most people do this sometimes, or how else would there be so many beer drinkers? 

I drink yerba mate every afternoon. When the weather is hot, I drink it with ice water, the rest of the time I have it with hot water. I enjoy everything about it, from boiling the water in my old kettle to emptying the old leaves into the compost pail and refilling my guampa with new tea. I enjoy the ritual. The first tepid slurp down to the last weakened pull is something to look forward to and savour. I started drinking this tea when I was a boy with my father. I made a game of it, trying to keep a straight face while draining each bitter turn I was offered. It looked cool, Dad drank it and liked it, so it must be something I should like too. In college, I bought my own kit and became a regular drinker. If you come to my house, I will most likely offer you a turn with the horn. Most people who try it do not wish to finish it, and if they have tried before, don't accept my offer. 

Now I wonder as an adult why I enjoy this tea. It is bitter. It is consumed scalding hot from a metal straw sitting in a cow's horn. Sometimes bits of the tea sneak through the strainer and get in your mouth. It is not convenient, fast, or easily portable. Do I like it because my dad drank it in front of me as a child? Because it became a game? I have some friends and family who also partake, so it might be a sense of belonging to an "elite" group. The simple answer is that I enjoy it now, regardless of how I got here. 

Music works much the same way. Lots of music is easy to appreciate, right from the first listen. Most of that sort of music wears thin quickly, and so is replaced constantly. Nickleback or any of their copycats, that interchangeable R and B on easy listening radio stations, it is all manufactured and disposable. Not that it is necessarily bad, or always uninspiring, it is just simple and what you hear the first time is going to be the same as what you hear the 20th time. Other music, less radio-friendly, may be harder to listen to or understand the first time. There can be real joy in listening closely and talking it over or reading about it and going back to listen again, and finding the beauty or the message the artist intended, or the experience they were sharing. But, play it for someone who isn't ready to think about it or is happy to keep it cheap and discardable, and they frown and skip it, or turn the volume down.

Mama hates when I listen to Tom Waits. He's got a voice like a backhoe. I think of him like one of those musicians at folk festivals who have invented Dr Suess-ish instruments and learned to play them and written music for them. He's taken a similar approach to his voice, and it is not usually easy to appreciate on the first listen. Give it a chance, a few more spins, and there is something remarkable there. 

A co-worker asked me the other day if I enjoy running. He's been on a health kick lately, eating better, running, etc. He hates every minute of every run he goes on. It plays with his emotions, he gets bored, his body aches... Do I enjoy running? I honestly don't know. I like that I went for a run this morning, but did I enjoy it while I was out there? Would I miss it if I could stop without making the dog crazy? I think I'm still at that stage of drinking bitter tea, trying not to pull a face, wanting to like it.

Now I find myself questioning if I really like anything. If I know what I like, or how to tell if I like it. I'm sure about some things, on my way with a few things, and there are a few I'm pretty sure I'm never going to get around to liking. Brussel sprouts spring to mind. For the two occasions per year it would be relevant to like them, it just isn't worth it. For now, the weekend is about to start, and I'm pretty sure I like that.