I’m never quite ready for spring. I haven’t gotten enough time to wear my winter clothes. I rather like the darkening later afternoon (before TIME CHANGE rears its very ugly head). It just means that summer is right around the corner, and I’m not quite ready to turn on the Air Conditioner.
I imagine many people who live in Michigan feel the same way about fall. They’re just not finished with summer. They’re not quite ready to get out their parkas. They’re not looking forward to shoveling snow. And shoveling snow. And shoveling snow.
But, spring is bearing down on me. And, truly, it’s a little difficult to be unhappy when things are looking so interesting and lovely.
Around town:
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- In the park, really soon there will be a sun-stopping bower that heavily shades the road.
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- These trees are at the river’s edge (the river is the less-bright, rather greenish strip). Soon, the river will hardly be visible from this vantage point in the park.
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- Winter time exposes the oddly branched trees, like this one, that the city has come out and trimmed to keep rotting or iced-up branches from taking down phone and electric lines. They don’t look quite this strange after they’ve leafed out.
In my own neighborhood:
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- This is the street next to mine. I like seeing the sky through the bare branches.
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- The view down a nearby street. I especially enjoy seeing where the birds built their nests, in sheltering, leafy boughs, but are now exposed.
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- The green, green trees are Live Oaks, whose waxier leaves stay on all winter, but will be pushed out when the new leaves come out in the spring.
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- Looking down my street. To the left of that nice lush Live Oak that’s in the center of the photo, the bare branches of my pretty White Oak show up . It still has little tiny leaf buds.
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- This is the top of our green yard bin, covered with the pollen of the Ash tree next door.
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- This is my neighbor’s tree. Those are the tiny flowers that dropped pollen. It’s an early leafer.
I, the Lord, am the one
who sends storm clouds
and showers of rain
to make fields produce.
So when the crops need rain,
you should pray to me.
Zechariah 10:1 (Contemporary English Version)
So, in my neighborhood, it’s spring. There’s lots to be grateful for. Very few plants died over the winter, even through the 12° and 13° nights. I’ve already done quite a bit of plant shopping. And I’m discussing my water needs with the Almighty.
As I was driving around the neighborhood, and beyond, looking for pre-spring photos, I took this one, too. It’s in a backyard near our house. Because we live in my childhood home, I happen to know exactly what it is and when it went in. Lots of folks may not immediately put the October 1962 date in this context, but the thing is a bomb shelter, installed in November or December 1962, when we knew we weren’t going to all be blown to nuclear smithereens, at least not right then. I was 12 at the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and I can assure you that I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO SCARED IN MY WHOLE LIFE. It was like that panic of a near miss of a traffic accident, or when you can’t find your kid in a crowd for a few minutes. But it lasted for DAYS. A few years ago, I watched a PBS special about it, probably in 2012. I almost had to turn the television off, I felt the panic so strongly that I wept, even though I did know how things turned out.
If you’re too young to remember, or just need a refresher, you can read a short version or a longer version or a much more detailed version.
Of course, as kids, we weren’t so traumatized by the whole thing that we couldn’t find the humor in the bomb shelter. We called it “Big John,” after a popular song at the time. And even now, every time I drive by it, I still hum “Big John.”
I’m pretty sure that the family that had it installed no longer lives there. Maybe several people have lived there since then. I would love to know what they’re doing with it these days. Maybe they refreshen the supplies every now and then. And, seriously, tornado season is approaching and they may feel smugly safe, knowing Big John is on the job.