Spring is a silly, rambunctious time of year
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- April 12, 2025
- 541
Last week, I got my first haircut since Thanksgiving.
Two days later, I shaved off my beard.
Then, of course, it snowed.
It wasn’t anything serious, just a light dusting, similar to powdered sugar sprinkled on a pan of brownies, but it was disturbing enough to make me question the very essence of my decision-making skills.
Springtime in Ohio is a quirky, slippery, frustrating affair, as unpredictable as a young lady’s fancy and just as confounding.
I’d almost forgotten its maddening charm, having spent nearly 25 years far removed from its cheap-trick, sleight-of-hand, oh-so-arbitrary nature, having been sheltered in North Carolina’s warming embrace, but soon enough, I got the message.
Simply stated, it was, “Not so fast, mister. Proceed with caution.”
I felt bad for the daffodils, all bent over and sagging, drooping under the cruel layer of vernal precipitation, their once-happy posture reduced to a ground-scraping submissive bow, a reminder that even the least threatening of God’s creations weren’t immune.
I thought, ever so fleetingly, of laying it all at the feet of my wife who, a few days before, had stowed the snow shovel in the garage, positively begging for a fist in a velvet glove to slam down in all its ironic glory, but quickly dismissed the idea as daftly demented.
Back in junior high, we studied the poetry of Emily Dickinson, famed recluse and despiser of spring’s annual arrival, who wrote:
“I dreaded that first robin so, but he is mastered now.
I’m accustomed to him grown, he hurts a little, though.”
Not to be outdone, George Harrison would answer the Belle of Amherst some 80 years later, penning these sunnier lines:
“Little darling, it’s been a long, cold, lonely winter.
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here.”
Who knew the Quiet Beatle had that kind of wisdom in him?
Springtime in Coastal Carolina lasted about 48 hours, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it respite between winter’s damp gloominess and summer’s blinding glare, not even long enough to reset your internal clock, which went from homebound hibernation to beach visitation so quickly that even the robins were mightily confused.
Speaking of birds being out of their element, I had just purchased my first new pair of Levi’s since the second Obama administration and was waiting outside the big box store for my wife to return to the car, when I spied what looked to be a seagull in the parking lot.
Down south, they’re ubiquitous, as likely to snatch an oceanfront lunch sandwich from your hand as they are to perch on the center field fence during a minor league baseball game. Seagulls are just part of the southern scenery, like shotgun shacks and cotton fields.
But to see one in northern Ohio was quite another thing altogether.
He (or she, I didn’t check) was quite alone, though, and I wondered how he (or she) had flown so far off course, feeling rather sorry that he (or she) had ended up in the slush, wandering around, looking for God knows what amid the fast-food litter and the soggy wind-blown fliers, part of a discarded newspaper insert.
I thought of spring in college and how I got my picture on the front page of the South Bend Tribune, the only time I was so captured.
Notre Dame held a festival called An Tostal, which derived its name and spirit from a tradition begun in Ireland, a festival celebrating the arrival of spring. It was a big deal on campus, and students took part in any number of events, ranging from chariot races to the Bookstore Basketball Tournament.
I played in three of them, and part of the fun was coming up with creative nicknames for each squad. One year, I was on the Average White Team, and the next, a group we called Pontius Pilate and the Nail Drivers. This was serious competition, however frivolous the team names, and playing against varsity athletes was always cool.
One of An Tostal’s signature events was the tug-of-war in which groups of eight – four guys and four girls – would stand on either side of a muddy trough and attempt to pull the opposition into the muck and the ooze as dozens of students shouted encouragement.
I had no idea that the local newspaper had assigned a photographer to cover the contest until the next morning when one of my roommates arrived from having breakfast in the South Dining Hall.
“Have you seen this?” he asked, tossing a section onto my desk.
“What is it?” I asked, scanning the headlines.
“Check out that picture,” he said, grinning. “I think that’s you.”
Sure enough, there I was, covered in mud but unmistakable with my long hair and Rolling Stones T-shirt, a goofy smile on my face.
“God, I hope my parents don’t see that,” I said, imagining their response to seeing their first-born child wasting his college days.
Then I thought, “They always told me to experience everything.”
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com. He invites you to find him on Facebook, where spring has always been an acquired taste.