Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

There were cooties everywhere.

I was in a waiting room, a place where people waited to see what happened next. Small talk, like cockroaches and seasonal flus, was prospering. A much too friendly fellow had been relating to all who’d lend an ear or two that he’d gotten carpal tunnel from waving at everyone he met. That’s how I knew he was too friendly. Then his name was called and he went off to wherever he went off to, waving to everyone he encountered. The man seated next to me watched a movie on his cellphone. If someone had told me when I was a boy that I’d be able to watch a movie on my phone one day, I’d have considered him loopy.

The film was jam-packed with terrible storms and bereft of meaningful dialogue. I wanted to take my iPhone out and search for a snow-shoveling app, but instead, I tried to take the place of the missing friendly fellow by supplying words, “The weather never agrees with anyone sometimes, but it doesn’t once in a while, too.”

He abandoned the screen long enough to give me an odd look. I didn’t blame him. My tang had become so tungled, I couldn’t see over my eyeteeth. I added, “But spring is just around the corner.”

We not only want spring, we need spring. Whenever our lives are out of whack, maddening weather gives us another whack. There is a lot of uncertainty as to when spring begins. Or maybe there isn’t. I’m uncertain. Either way or not, I’m sure that it’s both latitude and attitude that matter.

That morning, I’d heard the double squawk of a rooster pheasant. “Cow cat,” it crowed. A declaration of spring. I listen to the songbirds in my yard as they tell me of spring’s approach. Their vocalizations inspired by increasing day length. My favorite bird, the black-capped chickadee, whistles its “fee-bee” song. This could be translated in various ways. “Spring’s here,” “Love you,” ”Sweetie” or “I’m cold.” Cardinals herald spring by whistling, “What-cheer, cheer, cheer.“ Woodpeckers drum on resonant surfaces. White-breasted nuthatches produce nasal “Wha, wha, wha” sounds. Blue jays make pump handle calls. Great horned owls, the first birds to nest hereabouts, hoot duets. The male, smaller than the female, has the deeper voice. Red-tailed hawks, familiar raptors alongside highways, begin hanging out in pairs. The bills of starlings turn yellow. I think most birds observe a meteorological winter, which considers the months of December, January and February to constitute our winter.

Some folks consider the sight of the first robin to be a harbinger of spring. The problem with that is we see robins here in winter. We see stubborn robins that don’t want to miss any lutefisk suppers. My mother said a returning robin needed three snows on its tail before it was truly spring. My grandmother stamped the first robin she spotted in spring. She licked her thumb, pressed it into the palm of her other hand and then stamped it with her fist. It brought good luck.

Jumping snow fleas are another sign of spring being just around the corner. As temperatures warm and snow melts, these curious insects are observed. Tiny snow fleas (not real fleas, but wingless springtails) are found in leaf litter and soil around the base of trees, where they feed on decaying organic material. They resemble black pepper as their black color and large numbers make them conspicuous against the white snow.

The red twigs of the red-osier dogwood become evident against a background of snow. They are the red veins of spring.

The angle of the sun changes enough that the inside of a parked car warms in the sun.

There are many signs of spring, but none point to the corner where spring hangs out. We’re given no directions. We suffer from lack of direction in a world with many directions. We aren’t directionless, no matter what our teachers said. We’re headed in a direction, albeit the wrong one. We’re walking field guides on how to get lost. How are we supposed to find that corner?

Minnesota has 142,914 miles of roads, give or take a quarter of a mile. That’s the fifth most road miles of any state, following Texas, California, Illinois and Kansas. No wonder it’s difficult to pinpoint the corner of which spring is just around.

I know where spring is. It’s at the corner of Main and pothole.

And spring arrives when the UPS driver starts wearing shorts.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.