Spring in England

I was born, long, long, ago, in this place called Southern California.  There many, many, many, many, many, many, many people lived and worked and went to places called beaches and got things called sun tans (this novel concept of heating your own skin to a brownish color).

As a child I was moved to this other place called Florida.  There it was very, very, very hot and people did things every year like evacuate from hurricanes and participate in a ritual called Spring Break (where t-shirts were wetted and men cheered).

When I reached adulthood I came to this country called Texas.  There the people were strange and drove large vehicles and made things as large as humanly possible.  There I learned that when something was just around the corner it was, in fact, several hundreds of miles away.

After my time in Texas I decided to venture to a new country: England.  It is, in fact, an island with another country, Scotland, bolted to it.  (There is also this place called Wales that is, apparently, its own country as it advertises a lot on British Airways flights.)  Here you must endure approximately 3 months of darkness and cold, but your reward is glorious.

For today, finally, after many, many more weeks than I would ever like, Spring has shown up.

Spring, where the daffodils pop up out of what looks like bunches of tall grass.

Spring, where the wind can be problematic, but is fixed by kites.

Spring, where they launch hot air balloons by my place of work and rapid succession.

Spring, where men in England remove their shirts to revel in their wide expanses of white reflective space.

As a child I never quite completely understood the Easter cards with their bunnies and yellow and white (unless you lived at my Grandmother’s, but that is another story).  Here, I get it.  I get the pastels and baby chicks and the whole bit.

It’s the best time, it’s the awesomest time.  It is – SPRING!

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