My Recurring Bouts of Spring Fever

Despite California's current and terrible drought, a smattering (or perhaps well-timed, if meager?) amount of rain has tricked the countryside into a state of greenness that makes this hiker catch her breath in wonder.  Other symptoms include dreaminess, spaciness, random euphoria, heightened sensitivity, and a burning desire to learn bird calls. Coupled with the unseasonably warm weather we've had in February, I think I can officially diagnose my condition as Early Onset Spring Fever. Here is a piece I wrote for The San Francisco Chronicle a while back on this condition....

I often joke with friends from other locales that Sonoma has two seasons: wet and dry. This straightforward system makes for some dramatic changes in our landscape, as it transforms the brown hills and the brittle beige stalks of wildflowers gone to seed in the dry months to miles of dazzling green. Such a verdant panorama can bring on the palpitations, delirium and zeal that are the first signs of spring fever. Other symptoms may include a certainty that everyone is flirting with you, an irresistible urge to wear chartreuse and/or hot pink, and frequent sighing. Let us take our cue from that old Herb Newman song as we attempt to unravel the mysteries of spring fever on several levels: a) the birds, b) and the bees, c) and the flowers d) and the trees. We will conclude with: the moon up above and a thing called "love." 

The birds 

I will admit to being more than a little envious of the female bird. In no other species will the males go to such lengths to dazzle and woo the females, and never is this more apparent than in the spring. It's as if the Goddess of Color had one glass of mead too many and drenched every male bird in colors so magnificent that any winged female would be a fool not to fall for him. Blue feet get bluer. Rosy beaks get rosier. Cranes just wanna dance! Feathers go beyond flamboyant into plumage that truly takes the breath away. Gular sacs on frigate birds puff out like a Valentine's balloon, so the fellow is literally wearing his heart on his sleeve. And the bowerbird from Down Under goes beyond a great set of pipes or a flashy costume, wowing potential mates with his nest-building prowess. This bird pours his heart and soul into the construction of mounds, luring the females in for a "visit," by actually decorating the structures with pods and flowers or shiny bits of foil, even "painting" the walls of the interiors with chewed up berries or pigments. What's not to like? And don't even get me started on epaulets! Is there anything as fetching as the liquid trill of the redwing blackbird munching on some exploded cattail or another, trying to look nonchalant but puffing out his scarlet epaulets with all his might so they catch the light just so for any female onlookers? Would that we flight-challenged creatures could learn from them all! 

The bees 

When I hear a soft buzzing somewhere off in the distance in March in Northern California, a shift occurs. My whole body relaxes and I am reassured that spring has arrived. There is no mistaking the whirr of a working bee for the dreaded cacophony of a leaf blower (have we somehow forgotten the virtues of a rake?) so I begin to search for the source of the sound. There, nosing around in the first delicate plum blossoms or taking advantage of a calendula that has jumped the gun, is a bee, gathering pollen and getting the fertilization ball rolling despite a bit of chill still in the air. The bee, for me, is a far superior harbinger of warmer and longer days than some seen or unseen shadow of any old groundhog. Long live the bee. 

The flowers 

Nothing says spring like flowers, in particular: bulbs. Maybe it's because they are planted as remarkable oniony things in the darkening days of fall and lie in wait under sodden ground all those months. Or maybe it is because they are the first to bloom when all else is bare. Or, perhaps I revere them because they come back year after year and multiply all by themselves and are not fussy, high-maintenance citizens of the garden. But mainly, I love the spring bulbs because so many of them smell so good. To call the soil in the North Bay where I live clay-ish is like calling cement firm. But the bulbs, when the world is, as e.e. cummings rhapsodized, "mud luscious and puddle wonderful," valiantly manage to push their green shoots through every single year, come flood or frost. Seeing that first narcissus traditionally brings on the first symptoms of spring fever in me, the flushed cheeks, the disdain for woolens that were welcome only a few days earlier. 

As early as January in California, the narcissus begin poking their green shoots of promise through the muddy puddles, followed by hyacinths, then daffodils, then anemone, then freesia, then ranunculus and last but certainly not least, the tulips. There is something reassuring about the consistency of this parade. I love following their procession, one ushering in the next, the slugs laying waste to the predecessors. There is also this orderly procession in the realm of wildflowers. After the first few rains, the fields near me fill with wild radish. Next, painting all the rows of earth between the vineyards a dazzling yellow, comes the wild mustard (planted there, rumor has it, because the flower imparts nitrogen to the soil, which is good for the grapes.) My dogs love to dig up the peppery roots and chomp them down, and I always imagine myself on our walks as a type of confident Euell Gibbons, able to survive, if necessary, for days in the wilds of Sonoma by knowing which of all those greens and roots that sprout each spring are edible. Mark that as another symptom of spring fever: sudden urge to graze. 

Is it wrong to have a favorite flower? Shouldn't they be like children where you love them all equally? After all, they are frivolous things of beauty, there exclusively and purely to delight the senses, and there are so few such things left in this world. And yet, I must confess that lilac is the favored one. Nothing can send me reeling back in time to a specific moment and experience as instantly as certain smells. This holds true for many people, so when they lean down to inhale the perfume of the lilac, you can almost see the wheels turning in their heads as past scenes flood their memories: "Grandma's Sunday breakfasts, the white pitcher she put lilacs in, the fresh strawberries," or "the house I grew up in, playing hide-and-seek behind the tall purple hedges" or "putting one behind my ear the first time I kissed my husband." Lilac wins the Most Evocative Scent of Spring distinction every time. And since it is, technically, a bush, this leads us handily into: 

The trees 

Trees go into a hullabaloo of fancy dressing in springtime. Eucalyptus acorns don their pastel hula skirts. Manzanita put on their dangly, pearly pink earrings. Acacia trees, with their abundance of yellow puffballs, enjoy a friendly rivalry with mustard as both aim to color the landscape in yellows. And once magnolias start boasting creamy pink blossoms the size of loving cups and plum trees begin to burst into romantic showers of pink or white, well by then, one can catch spring fever by simply walking down any street. 

Meanwhile, in the woods, chestnut and buckeye trees present their upright green buds like sleepwalkers holding candles as they move through the night. The word "bud" is usually accompanied by the adjective "tender" and therein lies the hopefulness of spring. Seeing all those tender buds on peach, plum and cherry, I can almost taste the fruits that will soon hang on every branch. 

The moon up above 

Moonlight exacerbates the condition of spring fever and makes poets of us all. There is some misinformation circulating that spring fever afflicts only those who can be considered romantics, but in truth, no one is immune to moonlight. Once the mockingbirds return and start inspiring awe at dusk, with their staggering repertoire, and all the white flowers, (you know who you are, jasmine) which smell stronger at night because, it is said, they need to be pollinated by moths, once they go into olfactory overdrive under the light of the moon, there is no use resisting. Even the logical and practical among us are lured by the moon, answering a sudden call to sit outdoors at cafes, wearing jackets if need be, if only to bask in its glow. Howling is optional. 

A thing called "love" 

Interesting that Newman chose to put the word "love" in quotes when writing his song, as if it is some fictional thing. Love, however elusive and enigmatic, is a huge part of spring fever, to the degree that Tennyson declared: "In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." After all, falling in love and spring fever share similar symptoms: inability to concentrate, sweaty palms, palpitations, irrational behavior. Is it my imagination or is every couple walking down the street holding hands, sweaty or not? If spring is all about lushness and rebirth, and the birds are flying around with nesting materials clutched dearly in their small talons, and the outdoors is so buzzy and pollen-filled that I feel woozy just inhaling and exhaling, then am I not already a goner? Every spring, I get to experience that falling-in-love feeling all over again. 

In fact, by the time you read this, many of you, too, will be showing the early symptoms of spring fever, as it is almost epidemic this time of year. No sick days are allotted at the office for the condition, no downtime granted to take off the shoes and wiggle one's toes in the new grass. There are no inoculations against it though it is highly contagious. Yet spring fever is the one condition most of us are more than ready to catch.