Mr. Write's Page

Da spring has sprung,
Da grass has riz.
I wonder where da boidies is?

I hoid da boids is on da wing,
But dat, you know, is just absoid,
Because da wings is on da boid.

— “Spring in the Bronx” by “Anonymous”

——————

I appreciate the arrival of spring more every year.

Yes, I know — the pollen is awful, and the dandelions are taking over, and those fuzzy things are falling from the oak trees. And suddenly, da grass needs mowing twice a week.

But the days are getting warmer, and I finally get to wear shorts again, and for the last month, turning on either heat or air conditioning has been a rarity.

All the things that looked dead a month ago are popping out green. That row of dinky azaleas I planted last year has popped out in color and looks amazing.

The liriope is putting out bright green shoots. The mums in the planters on my patio survived the winter and are growing again. My fruit trees made it, too.

And the dogwoods. Where I live, dogwoods dominate, and they are in glorious bloom right now.

In every patch of woods, in practically every yard on every block, the dogwood blossoms stand out dramatically — bold patches of white, dotted with occasional pink.

A few days ago, I drove over to Athens to check out a trail assigned to me at Sandy Creek Nature Center. I am a bona fide trail volunteer there. I am obliged to submit regular reports in re the trail’s condition; e.g., Nothing to report or Hey, a tree is down, get out the chainsaw.

The entire time I was on the trail and under the canopy of trees — the entire time — I could smell the sweet, delicate, delightful perfume of springtime.

The dogwood blossoms, the riot of new growth, that wonderful aroma — it was enchanting.

As for da boids, one of dem just made its nest inside my garage — for the third year in a row.

I can understand why da boids are attracted to the garage. The garage is open a good part of the day. It’s covered and protected, and, if the mama boid selects the right spot, such as on a high shelf or inside a box, secluded.

True, I have to close the garage door at times. But if a boid wants to spend the night trapped inside, well, that’s for da boid to decide.

This year, however, they went too far.

Those are my yard shoes. I use them for mowing, weeding, trimming, transplanting, and whatnot.

I keep them in the garage on a shelf (I can’t leave them on the floor because the neighborhood dogs steal them), and I guess they were irresistible to the mother boid.

Apparently, the nest in the left shoe was a trial run. Only the nest in the right shoe had been completed and was in use.

Although it pained me to do it, I removed the nest from my shoe and placed it (the nest, not the shoe) in a bush just outside the garage. To avoid contaminating the nest with human smell, I wore gloves.

I’d like to think the mama boid found her nest, but I doubt it.

I’m sorry, mama, but I need my yard shoes. Better luck next spring.