My neighborhood is scratching an itch.
Oh yes, we are.
We had sunny skies and a warming trend — 57 Fahren — on Saturday, and it was riding-with-the-top-down-base-thumping-music time. It was crank-up-the-gas-barbecue-nitrates-grilling time. It was drain-the-pool-clean-the-liner-time.
Mama Weather decreed it.
Nobody messes with that she-wolf.
It was student-car-wash-fund-raiser-at-your-local-gas-station time. I actually was
speeding driving by a young woman on the boulevard dressed in a dark track suit wearing a red bikini top over it with big red balloons stuffed in it, holding a sign over her head that read, “Get Your Car Washed Here.” She was just trying to invoke thoughts of hotter days, sponges & suds, and scantily clad youth slaving over your car for charity or prom or a new smoking tent at the high school. Those ad men of Mad Men would have been proud.
I heard hammers and saws. I don’t know what that was about, and I didn’t think I should pry.
Kids were swinging on tires and golf bags were being readied and hefted into trunks for a Sunday round.
I got my hair whacked, and highlighted and lowlighted. Spring, baby, Spring. I slapped my retro 50s Coach sunglasses on my face and let those new locks of yum swing from side to side. I cruised a couple of nurseries imagining a garden exploding with color beyond our winter grunge palette.
I stood on a wobbly step stool and removed the artificial Christmas wreath from the front brick wall of the house. Once that giant fog patch from last week lifted, that wreath was glaring in its wintry self. It had to go.
All the bus exhaust got scrubbed from the front door, and the Brussels Block stairs were swept within an inch of their lives. A bird must be trying to nest nearby. I can’t figure out where. But every morning I open the front door and there are strands of brown grass and straw and fuzz strewn across the steps. I get the broom and sweep them away, and the next morning they are back again. This is a bird with persistence. This is a bird with determination. This is a bird with ‘tude.
Don’t it feel good to let yourself go? Yes. Yes, it does.