Spring Is Sprung
Well, the fringe tree in our yard has popped its cork and the Kanapaha Botanical Gardens’ Spring Garden Festival is this weekend, so it must be Spring. It’s kind of hard to tell because it’s pretty much been Spring around here ever since the end of Autumn. Winter never showed up. The cheerful dogwoods and azaleas have made their annual appearances and now exited, the Grapefruit League pre-season baseball games are winding down as the teams pack up their gear and head for their respective homes, and all the college kids have had or are still having their Spring breaks. Another season of the city-packing Gatornationals has concluded and the Santa Fe Spring Arts Festival is just around the corner. Racing returns to Calder on April 9th after a long hiatus at Gulfstream, so maybe we can actually find a race for Cosmic Crown. Her half-brother, now named Cosmic Flight (aka Pogo), will join her around the first of May.
Ah yes, Spring! But with all these wonderful happenings afoot, we must be careful not to let down our respective guards. There are always dark forces at work seeking to put a damper on our happy paradisiacal existences. Like what, you ask. Well, like this, for instance:
Attack Of The Killer Caterpillars
Now you know that Siobhan and I are caterpillar sympathizers from way back. Siobhan was actually a caterpillar collector, taking entire days off from school as a wee child to pursue her hobby. And, as a tiny boy, I used to be a caterpillar herder. That’s right, I would build a sort of stockade in my back yard and kind of funnel the critters in there. Once enclosed, the caterpillars would have a plethora of planned activities scheduled for them and, I don’t mind telling you, it took me hours of valuable play time to attend to all this. Siobhan’s caterpillar hunts were eventually curtailed when a fellow-student accidentally turned her in and my own efforts were abruptly concluded when my mother was overrun with caterpillars while sorting her laundry, but that’s another story. Long story short, we have no longstanding beef with caterpillars. And so I am sure that you will accept that our current reports are accurate and impartial and not exaggerated one bit.
Suffice to say, THEY’RE EVERYWHERE! They’re swarming on the ground, they’re all over the vehicles, they’re falling from the skies, millions and millions of caterpillars, stumbling through your car windows, crawling up your legs, dive-bombing—with unerring accuracy—the backs of your necks. Where the hell did they all come from? It’s a mystery. We used to be able to tell they were coming when we’d see their little tents in all the trees and bushes. Crap, we'd say, here come those goddam caterpillars again. But then we’d remember what our mothers told us and smile. The caterpillars, after all, were actually future butterflies. The former were just the tiny price we had to pay to get the latter. And everybody loves butterflies, right? I’d like to be the first to point out, however, that we may be getting a little gypped here. I mean, we’re getting FAR more caterpillars than we are eventual butterflies. It’s just not right. Oh, I suppose some of you will try to tell me that people in other environs are balancing things out by getting more butterflies than caterpillars but I don’t see how that’s possible. You need the caterpillar first, right? Anyway, I digress. I was going to point out that we don’t even get any warning about these caterpillars anymore. We have to jump into Instant Survival Mode. Larry the Fedex Man can no longer wear his glamorous short pants without worrying about the dreaded caterpillars crawling up into disturbing places. Bill can’t simply jump up onto his tractor to go and mow because there will be thousands of skwushable caterpillars on the seat and even more, if that is possible, on the strangely caterpillar-erotic steering wheel. And try to brush them off—they cling on like glue. Embarrassed as I am to admit it, I may have—only once or twice, mind you—accidentally skwushed a caterpillar or two while vigorously sweeping them out of the way. It’s a caterpillar occupational hazard and I am sure God (assuming he is not a caterpillar) will understand.
One of the great caterpillar mysteries which I don’t comprehend one bit is where do those little web things they hang from extend to? I mean, I used to think they reached up into the trees or the barn roof or something like that. But the other day I bonked into a tiny caterpillar who was hanging from an invisible web that reached upwards into the open sky. There was no tree, no building from which the web could possibly be hanging. It was kind of like the caterpillar Immaculate Conception or something. I don’t get it.
Oh, well. I guess time and some hungry birds will eventually clear this mess out, although neither one of them seems to be working particularly hard at it. Then we’ll all go out and wash our cars, another enemy finally dispersed. Just in time for the annual Surge of the Horrific Windshield-Clogging Lovebugs. Is it time for Summer yet?
In The Spring, A Young Man’s Fancy Lightly Turns To Thoughts Of….
Baseball?
Love?
Income Taxes?
When I was 21, it was All of These. Baseball, of course, is a given, so we’ll concentrate here on Love and Taxes.
I’ll bet you didn’t know this, but once upon a time, Bill worked a short several-month stint for the Internal Revenue Service. And no, I am not making this up. The IRS had a Service Center in an old mill building in North Lawrence, where they processed returns from oh, about a twelve-state area. Every year, they offered free key-punch machine classes to interested parties. If you mastered the machine, they would put you to work for the six or so month tax processing season. If not, well, you were now well-versed in the art of key-punch and you could go find a job….well….somewhere, I’m sure. Key-punch machines, by the way, are like glorified typewriters. I am not the fastest typist in the world but I am fast enough and I don’t make too many mistakes. From two classes of about 150 applicants, they hired me and—here’s the good news—one other guy. And about 50 girls. All told, the employees were 80% female, mostly young and available. As usual, I was a little fussy and cast eyes on a French knockout named Bobbie Guilmette. She didn’t seem too enthralled with me for some perplexing reason but I am nothing if not determined. One of my friends there, a large jolly woman named—get this—Rita Tingle went to work on her. And my boss, an affable dike with whom I used to go bowling, put in a good word. Bobbie Guilmette became friendlier, but not date-ready.
Eventually, I put out my one local issue of Charlatan. We usually featured a college coed in each issue but since we were not at college anymore, we incorporated Bobbie Guilmette. I figured after she saw what a wonderful and talented guy I was she could no longer refuse me. True to my expectations, she caved and accepted a dinner date a week hence. What a clever fellow that Bill is. Except:
When I showed up at her house to pick her up, her mother said she wasn’t there. WHAT? How could she possibly forget a date with Bill? Oh, I get it—there was no forgetting involved. I was—for the first (and last) time in my life—stood up. I thought I should probably go out and mess around town for a few hours so I wouldn’t have to report this humiliating event to my mother but I decided to shlump back home and take my sympathies. My kindly mother was sure Bobbie “just forgot,” but I am not sure that would not be even worse. Anyway, there was not much cheerful bantering between us at the old IRS after that. Even merry Rita Tingle gave us a wide berth.
What goes around, as we all know, eventually comes around, however. A few months later, my friend Jacques Guerin and I were cavorting around Hampton Beach in his sporty automobile and we ran into Bobbie and a girlfriend. They were desperate for a ride several miles down the road to Salisbury Beach, probably because Hampton was dry at the time and Salisbury was packed with little bars. Bygones are not always just bygones with Bill, however. I told Jacques, the driver, to follow my lead. I got into the back seat with Bobbie and her girlfriend jumped in with Jacques—a very friendly girl, I might add. Bobbie was amicable enough herself, accepting a little friendly smooching. Maybe she liked it or maybe she thought that was just the price to pay for the ride. But really, it was just the down payment.
Jacques, on cue, hung a right on an unprosperous looking side road just out of Hampton. Bobbie looked a little concerned but didn’t say anything. Her friend in the front seat liked Jacques and seemed up for whatever. The road degenerated into a dead end and the possibilities did not seem bright for Bobbie.
“Alright, Jacques, turn around,” I told him. Bobbie got it. She visibly exhaled and we headed on to Salisbury Beach.
“You told Rita Tingle you were a little afraid of me,” I said. “That still doesn’t excuse just not showing up. But at least you know now—considering the happy result—you have nothing to be afraid of.” There would obviously be no more hanging out that night but I did see Bobbie a few times in later days before my 1962 tip to Austin. If I were a complete and utter cad, I would tell you she was well worth waiting for, but I have better manners than that.
We Get Letters….
Including this one, from Barbara at the gym:
Just in case we don’t see you at the gym tomorrow and end up coming to your wake instead, we wanted to say how entertaining your blog was. And, seeing as I’m one of the idiots who watches The Bachelor, I just had to correct you on something. There have actually been two marriages—one girl on The Bachelorette married (has two children) and one of the Bachelors married, although it was not the girl he originally chose, but the runner-up. But you’re right—it is one of the dumbest shows on TV and why my sister and I watch it is beyond me. It must be the romantic in us hoping they’ll find true love.
Wait a minute, Barbara. Technically, we’re still correct, right? No marriages between the Chosen Couples on The Bachelor. It doesn’t count if you dump the original choice and marry the runner-up. In fact, it proves you’re even MORE of a dope. I never made any claims about that other program, the excerpts of which are even more offensive than The Bachelor.
We appreciate the input, though. If it weren’t for readers like you keeping us honest, God knows what irresponsible outrages we might perpetrate on an unsuspecting public. Now back on your treadmill. And make sure your incline is high enough.
That’s all, folks….
