"Tell us your favorite story of spring"

Spring. Why did the crafters of the English language bless this season with a name implying some sort of speedy green explosion? It sounds like a sudden jailbreak from the brown and gray staleness of winter. No such luck

Spring isn't very springy. It's downright fickle. One day we get teased with fifty degrees and sunshine and everyone pours out of the office buildings in downtown Chicago at lunchtime. Their faces turn upwards like daisies catching the sun. The next day we get slapped upside the head with thunder-snow. Another day may look wonderful out the window but heading out without enough wool about the shoulders could yield a cold surprise. Today was one of those days. Brr!

I struggle to reconcile the seasons amidst all this concrete. One day it thaws a bit and I wander out to one of the few places where I know I can find large patches dirt. Green sprouting from the branches is a nice visual but I know spring is on it's way by the smell of the dirt and the aroma of thawing earth unadorned by floral scents or pollens.

I am the youngest of 5 children. As I reached the age of 3 I began watching all of my older siblings get taken off to school every day while I got to stay at home. I figured they were being carted off to the jailing which, by my estimation, they richly deserved. I got to pretend that I was an only child. I was happy. Without those other brats around to get me into trouble, my mom seemed to like me better.

During the long Upstate New York winters Mom & I would be cooped up inside together. I played house between the table legs while she vacuumed or swept. I pretended I was helping cook dinner by standing in the kitchen and licking bowls. I'm sure I was underfoot and as soon as it was a bit warm enough I was bundled up and plopped out on the porch to get some fresh air. In the rural area where we lived the breeze travelled for miles over open fields and the first scent of spring to hit my nose was the musky scent of the earth waking up. After the sterile winter, this dark, moody smell was potent with information and promise. I'm there again, just three years old, sitting on the back porch looking up at the morning sun, hearing my mom doing dishes and singing softly in the kitchen, whenever that aroma hits my nose.

I hesitate to let go of that place when it's time to end this break and head back to my stale office. I fidget at my desk for the afternoon thinking of the art I should be making or the fun I should be having. Spring is pretty slow, but it only takes a moment of that smell for that fever to explode.