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“I’m as restless as a willow in a windstorm. I’m as jumpy as a puppet on a string. I’d say that I had spring fever but I know it isn’t spring.” — Rodgers and Hammerstein But it is spring here in the valley, isn’t it? Despite the brazen thermometer and fresh mountain snow, and aside from the fact that the heater drones, and Oliver and I are cozily hunkered down enjoying a bit of indoor birdwatching, there are obvious clues of spring’s arrival. These signs are clarion visions of vernal veracities. Too much? Storms come, but they also leave us with big, juicy, blue holes filled with sky until a sister storm blows in. Within these halftime breaks, I’m able to sneak out with my handy kneeling pad and weed an entire front bed. I’m able to, yes. Did I? Actually, yes. The mood is trending upward. The resident birds begin to go ape with song the instant this happens, so I fill bird feeders and wash/refill their bath too. I figure they’ll want to look their best for courting rituals. Spring fever has a tendency to flush out the strange and flamboyant among us — those ebullient souls, under wraps too long. Like floral buds that simply must pop after building up a good head of winter steam. There’s no place else for the pent-up energy to release but out onto the sidewalks and into Walmarts everywhere. Why, just yesterday as I drove down Main Street, I spotted a man eager to embrace spring. He was so eager (pause) that he donned his SF Cardinals baseball cap, stuck a Chihuahua in a baby buggy and clipped off down the street. I got to see them coming and going, each exhibiting their own facial expression of seasonal optimism. Within about seven minutes of seeing that pair, a lanky youth with red hair, backward cap, and balancing atop a skateboard zipped by wearing an unfettered grin. He knew about spring fever. How about the wobbling foam rubber-clad Statue of Liberty people we see near tax-preparation offices? They spell spring — T-A-X-E-S. The IRS must have thought long and hard for once to decide on the least offensive season for filers. Spring is the time of internal and eternal optimism. Another tell-tale harbinger of spring is the wet Oregonian — both the newsprint and human varieties. I had the dips in my driveway dug strategically for optimum puddling. Any experienced delivery person can land a newspaper with a splash. It works best when they’re inserted, but not tied, into a plastic sleeve, thereby serving as a wick. And because people in Oregon embrace the term “webfoot,” it is a rare sighting to catch anyone with an umbrella. Visitors with good sense might find this puzzling, but we know that a soggy neighbor is better than an almanac for announcing the season when life with a good soaking is more richly felt. But the final and inescapable proof happened when I stepped inside Walmart with no make-up on. Walmart is a destination that normally brings out the ungrateful wretch in me. While praying silently yet fervently to not see anyone I know (at Walmart in Eagle Point? I must be feverish), I found myself nodding and offering friendly greetings to normal-looking strangers, of which there was an unusual number, myself not included. As if that weren’t enough, I stood in line with a smile on my face and didn’t as much as turn up a judgmental nose toward the impulse rack or sleazy magazine offerings. Some had Easter eggs and bunnies on them, after all. Spring has broken wide open with a whole week to celebrate. The forecast is for more sun and warmer temperatures. The flora and fauna do not have a monopoly on colorful emergence. Be on the lookout if you haven’t gotten your spring fever shot. It’s highly contagious. Joyful Easter, everyone. Peggy Dover is a freelance writer living in Eagle Point. Email her at [email protected].