I hate Spring for what it represents. It is the front door for Summer. And I REALLY hate Summer. Here in DC, our Spring is a brief fling of only a month or so, during which tons of cherry blossoms are dumped on the city, tons of pollen are dumped on our cars, and tons of tourists are dumped onto our streets.
Just try to drive anywhere this time of year in the District, and you will be stymied by huge tour buses all the way from Des Moines, driven by drivers who are thoroughly confused by the layout of our city.
But even as I claim to hate Spring, I know that I hate Summer more. Much, much more. I hate Summer with every sweat gland in my body. (I'm convinced every cell in my body has a sweat gland, and they all remain activated all Summer long. And as Summer around here lasts until Halloween, that's a lot of sweating).
So, I hate Spring, as the harbinger of Summer.
When I wake up these mornings, I roll over and look directly above my head. In traditional bedrooms, one would be looking at the headboard. Instead, in my condo, I am nose to glass with one of my large windows. I live on the third floor of a decidedly urban building, only a few blocks from the Capitol. But by some miracle, my windows are surrounded by trees. These trees are completely bare during the Winter months, but come Spring, they spring to life.
So, I wake up to this sight every morning these days:
When I lived in L.A., I would occasionally visit Disneyland, where my favorite exhibit (it wasn't really a ride) was a replica of the house where the Swiss Family Robinson lived. Remember that movie? The Disneyites turned the novel by Johann Wyss into a family-friendly star vehicle for Dorothy McGuire and Tommy Kirk. The shipwrecked family lived above ground, in a house constructed in the trees.
When I wake up these days, I spend several minutes gazing out the window into the lush foliage.
I'm like one of the Robinsons, or Tarzan, or George of the Jungle.
I'm living in a treehouse.