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.