Come the Revolution

Archive for March, 2010

One of the joys of seasons is that in the fall, when the mercury dips to 48 degrees, we rush to don sweaters and scarves and complain of the chill; in the spring, when the forecast calls for a 48 degree day, we pull the tee-shirts out of our closets with mad glee and dash outside to soak up all the vitamin D our poor, sun-starved bodies can manage.

All winter long, pedestrians stare responsibly down at their own feet, avoiding snow banks, puddles, and patches of ice. You know it’s spring in New England when passersby once again begin to meet eyes and smile. This urge for human contact is stronger in spring than any other time of year, and the exchanged look is acknowledgment of a shared secret: we may be fully-grown adults now, but these first few days of spring still make us want to play hopscotch, or ditch class, or at the very least eat lunch outside.

Everywhere around us we see signs of spring. We hear the peepers at night, calling to each other to come out and play. We see the first shoots of daffodils and crocuses, poking their little green heads out of the ground. Canada geese reverse their arrow and point north once again. Trees begin to blossom, and on campuses across the northeast, college students park themselves on sparse plots of grass to sunbathe in as little clothing as they can bear.

Some part of me goes into hibernation each winter; I exist in survival mode, by putting my head down and pushing, emotionlessly, through the cold and the wet and the absolute dearth of sunlight. I speak no more than I have to and I go out of my way for no one, as though I’m trying to conserve my energy for what’s left of the long New England winter. Last week the temperature reached a whole 48 degrees and I, overdressed in a sweater and a light jacket, made small-talk with a stranger on a street corner. As he walked away I realized: this is my sign of spring.