Ahhhhhhh, April is here.
What’s your favorite season of the year?
Each has its highlights, but I vote for springtime.
Spring is when you can shuck your sweater and feel the warmth of what’s to come. Well, let me back up.
Spring flirted with us in mid-March. We went to a middle-school baseball game. We wore light jackets, thinking we were prepared for 50-degree weather. But then the sun dropped behind the pines, and the wind roared in. A grandson on the mound was the only thing that kept us at the ballpark, cccccccold and ccccccheering.
My attorney and friend, the late Hubert Howard, once advised, “You’ll be surprised what you will do for your children.” Add to that “your grandchildren.” And now, two weeks later, I am thawed out and have these springtime thoughts:
§ The purple martins are swirling about their condo on a pasture pole. The winged acrobats are a joy to watch. When I see them arrive, I know the robins are not far behind. Both feathered friends make me smile.
§ Springtime makes me think about fishing. I believe our seven grandsons were born with a fishing pole in their hands. If we take a trip—any trip—their tackleboxes go with them. That makes me smile, too.
§ In the spring, when I drive over the Dr. Alvin Leaphart Sr. Bridge—high above the Altamaha River—I remember what the late Billy Parker said when I asked him when was the best time to go fishing in Long County’s Dunn’s Lake. Billy grinned and said, “Watch for that big sandbar on the Baxley side of the bridge.” When I nodded, he set the hook, “Well, you are about two weeks late.” That makes me smile.
§ In mid-March, I know it’s coming. And once it gets here, there’s no stopping until late September or early October. Once you make that first cut, it’s game on. On the farm, we never finish mowing. We just begin all over again. But there’s satisfaction in looking back and seeing the progress made. You can’t do that with every job, and that makes me smile.
§ In the mid-1980s, Billy Poppell introduced me to a grass-cutting innovation. In the Redland community, I watched him zoom and twirl around trees on the newfangled zero-turn lawn mower. He declared, “It’ll cut your mowing time in half.” The businessman was right, but he wasn’t there to watch me on my maiden mow. A wobbling drunk could have mowed a straighter line. With that comical memory, I can’t help but smile.
§ In early March—and sometime in late February—another sign pops up to signal that spring is nearby. I like daffodils. Last year, thanks to the generosity of a friend, we planted a pickup-truck load of daffodil bulbs. And this year, when I saw the yellow flowers bursting through the red dirt, I had to smile.
§ Dogwoods, redbuds and azaleas are nature’s “Paul Revere” of season change, too. The blooms “gallop” in shouting, “Spring is coming! Spring is coming!” And those colors take me back to April 1963. Pete Hires and I rode a Trailways bus from Jesup to Augusta to witness our first Masters. As ninth-graders, we saw Jack Nicklaus beat Arnold Palmer for his first green jacket. I’ve been back many times. But remembering that first tournament adventure and those brilliant azaleas in the Amen Corner makes me smile.
But there’s one thing about this time of year that doesn’t make you or me smile. Pollen is the scourge of spring. Yellow stuff blankets the earth and finds its way into our eyes, ears and nose. And it makes us, excuse me …
Ahhhhhhhchoooooooo!
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
