If the truth be known, spring is not my favorite season. Uttering such a thought in public is probably some form of heresy, and failure to act all giddy over the end of winter is stereotypically perceived as a sure sign of misanthropic tendencies. Poets have traditionally enjoyed waxing eloquently about spring—gushing over flowers and trees and birds and the like—but I have a somewhat different take on the season.
It’s not that I dislike the warmer weather, the colorful blooms, or the chirping of feathered friends. It’s more that I’m too aware of how spring heralds the arrival of a whole lot of work and more than a few headaches. It means I’ll be spending many hours a week, for many months, atop a lawnmower. It means hay fever. It means I need to check the dog regularly for ticks and fleas, to watch out for snakes, and to slog through acres of mud. Last year, thanks to a murderous windstorm that hit my place dead center, I spent much of spring chain sawing downed trees, picking up chunks of a leveled shed, repairing fences, and cleaning the mold out of a basement that flooded when the power was out for a solid week.
This was spring cleaning on an industrial level, and it wasn’t an isolated anomaly. Spring weather in Missouri is not for the faint of heart, and the only assurance is that, at some point, it’s going to turn scary, nasty, and dangerous. It’s a pleasantly romantic notion to think of honoring spring by throwing open the windows, whistling a spry tune, and cleaning a home from top to bottom, but such is a small part of the tale. At least where I live, you’re just as likely to be repairing the windows that got knocked out by a hail storm or hiring a guy with a skid loader to move the fifty-footlong pieces of twisted tin that used to reside on the barn but are now covering a corn field.
Spring is too often like a really attractive houseguest who busts open the liquor cabinet, downs a fifth of Jack Daniels, and proceeds to semi-accidentally set the back bedroom on fire. You knew that inviting her for a visit was to court disaster, but convinced yourself it was okay by utilizing the rationalization that’s led to the ruination of countless lives, plans, and civilizations.
“This time, it will be different.”
I adore fall and have a blast during the blazing summer. After living for many years in the northern Rockies where thirty-below is the rule, rather than the exception, Missouri winters strike me as generally mild and playful. Spring though—it’s tough. It’s as pretty as a picture postcard—I’ll grant you that—but red in tooth and claw.
I suppose that enduring spring’s manic behavior and unruly fits could be construed as a character-building exercise, a way to learn patience, to develop acceptance of forces that are not ours to command. It may be an opportunity to clean the mind and soul, to peacefully resign one’s self to the concept that we’re in control of nothing.
I’ll likely be doing just that, while watching cows sail away like kites and hiding from twisters in the basement.
This column was originally published in the 2021 March/April issue of Missouri Life magazine.
