Spring is a glorious time wherever you live. Some of my friends in the midwest and northeast are still trapped in the snowy jail of winter waiting (im)patiently for their spring to arrive, but here in the deep heart of Dixie,things are all abloom.
The azaleas are in full glory this time of year. The beastly, sticky hedges of winter transform into brilliant bushes of salmon, white and pink. The live oaks are that unusual hue of green that peeps out only once a year--that lime unique to fresh, new foliage. All of the plants are tumbling, unfurling, and hurtling toward that hot, sticky, jungly overgrown season of summer. I literally think that I can watch the plants grow as I watch them. Wisteria, for example, in full bloom already, will grow as much as an inch per day, and kudzu will grow even faster.
But before we embark upon summer when we don mosquito netting, gloves, and shears and fight back mother nature, we sit in rocking chairs on our southern porches, enjoying alcoholic lemonade and relish the spring. This is the best time to live in the south.
Truly, without exaggeration, it is glorious. My lemon tree is so laden with blossoms, and so heavily perfumed, that it is abuzz with bees feasting on the bounty. The ferns are reemerging from the ground, unspiraling into luscious green ground cover. The soil is again black and fertile, and the roses are hinting at the deep red buds within. EVERYTHING, everything is coming alive.
There is a downside to all of this lushness, however. Two days ago, our pollen index was 10.6 on a scale of 12. I am not sure what 12 constitutes. Is it total pollen saturation? A point where the pollen content in the air exceeds the air content in the air? Is it the point at which we start respiring chunky air? Who created the pollen index? It seems like pseudo science, something concocted to quantify our suffering. There is a little bar graph accompanying the pollen information. A little green bar indicates low pollen. Mobile's bar chart is some sort of deep burgundy, indicating air conditions similar to that of nuclear apocalypse. It might as well have a ticker underneath it reading, "ATTENTION MOBILIANS, GO BUY AIR IN TANKS, THIS AIR IS GOING TO CLOG YOUR LUNGS."
The air is visible, a shimmering golden halo hovered over the city, indeed the region, as though physically attached to us. The car washes in town were making a booming business as hapless drivers try to clear their windshields, only to have the yellow dust stuck to their vehicles hours later. I had to run my windshield wipers and washer multiple times per day to keep the view clean. It was as though I was driving in a yellow fog.
Our commerce begins to evolve. Instead of money, we conduct transactions in Allegra and Claritin. My heart, unused to the stimulants in decongestants, raced and palpitated when I finally broke down and took medication. Finally, the sinuses were clear, while I sweated and fretted about my exploding cardiac system. I kept the decongestants in my purse and offered them to friends and clerks suffering from the unholy effects of the pollen. Everywhere I go, I am greeted by watering, glassy eyes, and hacking coughs.
Friday night, I slept in S's room (God knows he wasn't using it). I slept upright, or semi-upright, in an effort to keep the gravity drainage system working problem. My body was literally wracked by coughing all night. I couldn't control or stop it. Even the dog stared at me, glassy-eyed, his feet stained yellow from the pollen, and silently begged for some Benadryl.
Last night, it rained. The air feels cleaned, refreshed. The weather website I trust says the pollen count is down to 9.8 of 12. Humans can probably function at 9.8. We can boldly turn down our car windows and enjoy the breeze (like the dog). We can open our windows and air out our homes. We can sit on the porches and welcome spring like our southern forefathers have done for generations. The only interruption to the singing birds, and chirping squirrels, being of course, my hacking cough.
No comments:
Post a Comment