Last weekend’s first Saturday of spring reminded me of a column I wrote about its counterpart in March of 2019:
Up early and heading to the lakefront on the first Saturday morning of spring. Primavera, Printemps, the field at Columbus Park silver with frost, but the March sun, climbing the cloud-free, blue vault, will soon coax that glaze to dew. For now, it poses a challenge to eastbound drivers as the blaze of dawn assaults not-yet-fully-awakened eyes.
Downtown, the sun’s light squeezes through high-rise canyon crevices, showing off art deco adornment and terra cotta flourish. The rippled mirrors of glass towers reflect full-length buildings, the streets below animated with delivery trucks and metal dollies weaving ’round morning walkers, who extend coffee cups before them like torch-bearers searching for honest men. Early-risers, shedding drowsiness, slowly work their way into busyness and businesses. Joggers glide past, frozen torsos riding rhythmic legs, arms pumping in synchronized sympathy.
One street-solicitant loves the Lincoln I tender from my Washington-less wallet while a vested sweeper directs yesterday’s careless discards into the hungry maw of his dust bin.
Back home, mid-morning, the sun floods tree bark and street crevices, turning eyes into super-organs that see, with an intensity forgotten since childhood, the plume of a cardinal, whose sharp, sweet call sounds slightly desperate. “Someone? Anyone? It’s spring!” Red’s richness proliferates. Many cardinals about to be born.
The wheat-chaff beige of last year’s lawns sport new shoots, multiplying and building to a green tsunami.
By early afternoon, a parade prevails on The Avenue sidewalks, cabin fever driving inmates out of doors, blinking in disbelief, donning shorts but huddling beneath fur-lined, hooded parkas, against a sharp breeze that can still lacerate. The chronically underdressed shiver in short sleeves, willfully wishing the season along.
Owners walk their dogs; smartphones walk their owners. A woman reads on a Mills Park bench, a sight unseen for many a month. Recreants bask on blankets, the sun high overhead. No more of this bowing to the Southern Hemisphere, it creeps just north of equinox along the horizon each evening, setting later and later, Daylight Salvation Time pushing back the night.
On Marion Street, the sidewalk announces “Spring Arrivals” in pastel chalk fronting one shop. A chalked Easter Rabbit perches above a sign in front of another, promising “Something for Everybunny.”
The sunny side of the street still beckons, but soon enough shade will be our summer sanctuary. For now, though, sitting on a chair outside a coffeeshop, a customer tilts her face sunward, eyes closed, absorbing the abundance.
The Austin Gardens ice rink lies in tattered, thawed ruin. Traffic sounds recede and bird-chatter moves forefront in this urban arboretum. Charred remains from a controlled burn cover the forest floor, the aromatic aftermath still lingering. Winged revelers celebrate the departing frigid air and the awakening earth. Irrepressible daffodil spears pierce the softening crust, eager to join the snow drops/crocus party as the annual parade of blooms begins.
Temps flower into the 50s and Scoville Park’s playground reaches full capacity, accompanied by the sweet-sour moaning of swing sets and shrieks of glee from those cooped up all winter. One girl high-fives Mom with every upswing. Bikes glide on the sidewalk downslope; a brilliant kite ascends with graceful tail, then crashes unceremoniously on the turf. Dad and a wheelchair-bound daughter watch girls turning cartwheels on the grass.
Spring’s prime is a full moon away, but the frozen months are finally, finally, finally surrendering winter’s night-heavy monopoly, giving way stingily, begrudging the very first stirrings of what must unfold in deliberate, yielding time, like a walker, hands clasped behind, inching forward with patient feet, neither rushed nor over-desired nor hoped for, with sure confidence that all will be fulfilled before our very eyes and noses, ears and tender touch.
From deep despair of ceaseless winter, we have been gifted another spring, one in a long line of marvels, chastising every doubt, more miraculous with every year.
Tomorrow will be raw and rainy again because spring favors the plants.
The season doesn’t aim to please us.
But sometimes, it does.