S is for…


Okay, so not everyone is as excited about it as I am. The cats would especially like it if this particular season would skip them all together as it involves trips to the vet, flea and tick medications not to mention the indignity of windy rain that keeps them indoors (why this is an affront and winter’s snow seems just a fact of life is one of many feline mysteries).  And the allergy sufferers in the house are cursing up a storm between sneezes, but I’m happier.

Warmer weather, easier walking conditions, thinner coats, all of these things make me happy. And every spring I’m seized with the uncontrollable urge to wander the gardening sheds of every store around me. I develop wonderous plans in my mind of urban gardening, fresh tomatoes (though I hate whole tomatoes, so I guess I’d stew a lot of them), cucumbers, Romaine lettuce, and daily salads. Then there’s the flowers. I guess this stems from my grandfather. The man had a green thumb like nobody’s business. He could get anything to grow. My mother would often bring him things other people mistook for kindling on our kitchen sills and within a month he’d have it flowering. It was also where my grandfather talked. He, like my father, rarely spoke. When he did, it was in his garden. Telling me how to make roses grow and when to trim things back, how his lilacs remained lushious and full all summer when everyone else’s had long sinced passed. Mixed in amongst the gardening tips were little stories. How he was called CanvasBack in the army because he never could win a boxing match. How he couldn’t believe there were films with sound and gave his best buddy a bloody nose over it. How much he fell in love with this one woman walking along side the road on his way to the barracks.

Every spring, when my roses bloom, I think of my grandfather and smile. So S is for Spring, and smiles.

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