Everyone everywhere else in the country will probably want to clobber me for the New-York-centrism of this, but I gotta say it: I don't think anyone welcomes the coming of springtime with the joy and fervor of New Yorkers. Why would it be otherwise? We live in the most cityish city in the U.S. We don't have the hardest winters, not by a longshot, but a case can be made that winter here is hardest to endure for the way it combines with, well, everything else about living here, to sap the spirit. Especially toward the end.
But then we find we have traversed the long slog that is March and we have come out the other side. And suddenly I have blossoms gentling me outside my Manhattan office window.
And suddenly the masses pour into the out of doors, jumping for joy, practically, with the sheer relief of the thing. Great gobs of humanity jostling each other for every inch of park space, sidewalk, every open window, every tiny patch of what passes here for yards and gardens.
And suddenly mushrooms trumpet forth underneath a tree in my Queens neighborhood. I had to leave the cigarette butts in the picture, for they are just as much a part of the scene. Ma Nature, stubborn gal, goes about her business as best she can against the odds.
The planet staggers. The damage mounts. For today, though, we sing. Tra-la! It's Spring!
I'm heading out now to spend the rest of my lunch hour touring tulip sites.
UPDATE: What did I tell you?And yes, the tulips are here! (Two weeks earlier than last year, but I'm trying not to think about what that means.)