There are some annoying morning doves outside our window each morning that keep “coooing”. That usually means that Spring is in full swing. They fly stupidly into our plate glass windows and do white “dumps” all over the deck. Can it get any better.
I signed up for golf yesterday. Last year I screwed up my back early in May and never played golf again. This year my back is still “in place” and I paid my annual dues to play Mondays. You’ve got to admit I don’t learn quickly. Spring does that.
The weekend rain has activated the “green” grass. Now I’ve got to get out my law mower.
Sports enthusiasts are caught “in between” this time of year. Packer football revolves around a stupid draft. Badger football hinges on a successfful Spring practice, NBA basketball stinks. The drone of Milwaukee Brewer baseball is beginning to dominate the airways. Baseball is the official game of Spring.
Grasshopper No.4’s roof still leaks. As the snow disappears and real water (rain) begins to pelt his new roof, water still makes it into the rear doorway. Yep, Spring.
My real signal of Spring used to be opening the cottage. It involved lots of planning. Turning on the water system, cutting the lawn for the first time, putting in the pier, and getting the boat engine serviced before launching. Don’t forget stocking the refrigerator with soda and beer. There was a whole lot of optimisim.
We bought a small tree in the back of the house two years ago. It doesn’t get real tall but it blossoms white and pink in the Spring. It is in full bloom.
Grasshopper No.1 and spouse (actually mostly spouse) planted raspberry bushes several weeks ago. It is a Spring procedure. I can’t wait until I get free berries.
Last night we got a freeze warning and the temperature did drop below 32 degrees in a few spots. Ah, Spring.
Put your screens on the windows, get out your summer jackets and plant your flowers. The optimism of Spring reigns supreme. Now if I can just stop my eyes from itching and nose from running, I can enjoy it all. Pass the sun block.
Love,
Dad