Spring Fever

By Debbie Lindsey

    Spring is in the air…as well as the scent of my stinky socks from running, walking, leaping, and crawling as my arthritis retaliates. Who doesn’t catch spring fever when the breeze feels as though you’ve just slipped on a slightly cool to the touch, soft flannel shirt, the one that is so well worn that the plaids are nearly opaque.  And as the sun sneaks up on you and penetrates your sunscreen, the humidity is low, yet the air is moist with the fragrance of sweet olive and the first grass cutting of the season.  God, I love spring.
    New Orleans’ weather is such that we can enjoy the tease as spring-like elements play hide-in-seek with winter.  Hibiscus and honeysuckle prematurely burst into bloom like overeager teenage lads glimpsing their first Playboy. One day cold; the next day, it’s a trip to the beach.  Wool coats and sundresses, boots and sandals are chifforobe roommates from autumn through winter; or in New Orleans talk—oyster season through to crawfish boils; Halloween ‘til French Quarter Fest.  And as we all know, Mardi Gras can land in any weather scenario. Seasons are marked more by the events or the edible treats they bring than by the thermostat.  My floor furnace vies for attention but the air conditioner is given a pretty hard workout as well during the winter.
For those up North who endure the discomforts and oftentimes serious dangers of snow and ice storms that are the only interruptions during their relentlessly long gray season, spring is like a lifejacket, a carrot dangling to get them through. My Northern friends seem to live for spring.  They act like bears exiting from a dark, damp cave. Whole conversations might rarely stray from gardening and the anticipated yield of vegetables for canning. 
We, on the other hand, are given sneak previews of spring throughout. Right now I am writing this column in the last days of January, and despite freeze warnings two days ago, my Mandevilla buds are near bloom and clover is taking over every spare inch of soil.
Do these previews of spring, these respites from the cold, dampen my appreciation of the season when it truly arrives?  No way!   There is something so primal about spring and that it seems to almost befuddle folks.  We have so removed ourselves from nature, insulated ourselves with fake temperatures and lighting, and surrounded ourselves in buildings within cities that belie nature that we seem surprised when our bodies and hearts become downright frisky as February turns to March to April. 
    Spring is my favorite season.  And yes… we do have seasons, contrary to what my many Northern transplant neighbors might think.  Perhaps to someone from Connecticut, the lack of snow to define winter or bright orange, red, and yellow leaves to signal autumn has them viewing the differentials of our seasons as lackluster. But I can assure you that a trip to Casamento’s for oysters more than celebrates the beginning of fall.  Celebration in the Oaks, Reveillon dinners, Super Bowl parties, and memories of Mr. Bingle more than typify Old Man Winter.  Summer is the smell of backyard grills, suntan oil, fresh cut grass – and fear.  For better or for worse, hurricane season is distinctive.  There is no denying the visceral impact that is felt even with the most harmless wannabe tropical affront. And with guilt fully in place, I still must admit to loving those pre-storm breezes that seem to wash over the city while sucking away the humid heaviness and haze of deep summer.
    Spring really does not need me to ramble on to explain its virtues (but my editor needs a thousand words). It is a standout season whether indulged in Minnesota or Houma.  Spring is a resurrection for Christians and a renewal, a rebirth of nature.  And here in Louisiana, it’s our annual reunion of the aesthetics of the written word, music, and culture and those who bear witness to it all with a toast and a sway in their hips.  Nothing says spring like a get-down festival. 
 It may be 30 degrees outside today but I can already feel my brain cells waking up to the Tennessee Williams Festival and my social skills stretching and limbering for the French Quarter Fest when everybody and their moms come out to stroll.  And Jazz Fest … what can I say?  It is the Olympics of all festivals.  For me it borders on a downright religious experience, and when coupled with a dose of spring fever, I fall in love with New Orleans in the purest way possible, forgetting all her ills. 
Now, with my heater valiantly fighting the cold draft cruising through this ancient old house, I see from the window my hibiscus displaying her spring wardrobe of blossoms.  This le’s me know that the vernal equinox is near and that light-heartedness will reign until the summer solstice. There is something about this neck of the woods that celebrates spring with an unrivaled verve.  We just plain know how to throw Mother Nature a party.   Happy Springtime.
   
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