TWO SPRINGS FORWARD
‘Red kapok flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of mockingbirds is come, and the voice of the turtle {actual reptilian turtles} is heard in our land.’—King Solomon in the tropics
A northern friend was recently told that her outfit was 'springy,' and was puzzled that a deep-southerner would know what she was talking about. ‘How do they even know what spring looks like when things are green and blooming all winter?’ she asked herself. This question inspired some {snarky-ish} reflections on my part.
How do we know what 'springy' looks like? In the subtropics, we know spring two ways. The predominant source of this knowledge comes from relentless indoctrination by schools and retail stores, which tell us that spring is brilliantly pastel and full of fluffy bunnies and over-sized, five-petaled flowers of unnatural hues.
Also, these flowers are literate.
vv This is springtime in La-La Land, as far as we are concerned. School also teaches us that leaves change color in the fall, and that we build snowmen in winter. Lies, all of them!
vv Now, this is springtime as we know it. {This is Sebastien at the regatta last weekend.}
The garish spring decor typically overwhelms the signs of the local spring, which may be subtle but are both real and reliable. {Of course, I live in the suburbs of an international city, so our community's exposure to nature tends to be on the subtle side—or at least the landscaped side. We do have great nature, but we also have long commutes.} And since the growing season is continuous, one's appreciation of seasonal change must be more... exquisite.
Spring here is actually our second fall. Mahogany leaves are showering the ground, their pods spiraling out of the branches and splitting on the asphalt. Since we had a cold winter this year, the leaves of the sea grape trees have turned brilliant colors—a marbling of red, orange, yellow and green. The red kapok, which lost its leaves in February, is now trumpeting to the sky with six-inch, leathery blooms. The sweet smell of blooming orchid trees is pervasive.
And if you are an insomniac as I am, you will be acutely aware of the love-songs of toads {which sound like the squelching of a wet shoe} and the fact that mockingbirds sing full-throttle in the middle of the night.
When you leave the city and suburbs, spring gets a little more wild. If you are in the Everglades, you'd better listen for the rumble of alligator bulls in search of romance. It would not be a good time or place to fall asleep and snore loudly, as one acquaintance did, because you might sound like an attractive reptilian female. In this context, you do NOT want to draw an admiring crowd.
Seriously, though, holiday decor, novels and {useless} growing guides are how we learn about such foreign things as spring, summer {wait, I know that one!}, fall and winter. Such spectacular demarcations do not exist where we live. The hackneyed joke is that we have two seasons in South Florida: alternatively known as 'wet' and 'wetter,' or 'hot' and 'hotter.'
But at least our education teaches us to identify 'springy' outfits so we can dress appropriately on Easter Sunday.
• ‘You’re looking pretty good...’ •
April 11, 2014