Springtime for Hitler

Okay, the title of this is a little misleading. I fell asleep while watching the original The Producers and my great love for Will Ferrell was not enough to outweigh my deep distrust of Matthew Broderick, so I did not see the remake either. For those of you who are at a complete loss, "Springtime for Hitler" is the name of the play that the Producers put on in hopes that it will fail horribly (apparently this will actually make them money [I don't really know, like I said I fell asleep ] ).

Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with Hitler.

But the Springtime part-- that I can work with.

When you were a kid, the very first day of class would consist mostly of "get to know you" type games and information sheets filled out and handed into the teacher (before recess). This is, of course, unless you had a hellspawn teacher, then sometimes you actually had homework on the first day.

C'mon lady.

It's the first day.

And I'm eleven.

So these information sheets were always the same: write your name, parents/guardians' names, address, other identifying things, and answer some fun questions that make me look like I care about the little things in your life (though I do not) such as: What is your favorite color? What is your favorite food? What is your favorite candy? What is your favorite season?

These questions varied very little from first or second grade (when we were actually able to write on our own) all the way through high school. My answers generally changed through the years (color: green... then black and red [I think I was goth before goth was goth]; food: Italian... then Mexican; candy: Reeses' peanut butter cups... then Reeses' peanut butter cups...hmm... I guess they didn't ALL change).

One answer that always stayed the same was "season: fall." There was so much about the fall that I loved. The brisk wind that made you wear a jacket. The vivid oranges, reds, and yellows. The sounds of waves of freshly fallen leaves rolling on the ground. The smell. The smell. As I've written before, I've always been a sucker for a good smell. And the smells of autumn win. Everytime. Burning leaves, hay rides, bonfires. . . The whole season is a sensory overload.

But.

But I think I have to change my answer now. Not that I'm filling out info cards any more, but you know, just in case. These things come up in conversations sometimes. And, uh, sometimes you have to write about them in essays (essays? Is that what these are considered? I don't really write about "today I did this, and then I did this" so I don't really think they're considered blogs. Plus, "blogging" is SoOoOo 2004. Pshaw).

My new answer? Spring. The thing about Fall is it's a little depressing. If you laid out the year like a person's life, fall would constitute the "staying in a hospice" section of the time line. Everything is dying a slow death. It always seems so much shorter than you'd like. After the first cool breezes felt on your skin, before you can take it all in the trees are all bare and the frozen corpse of the world is hidden somewhere under a blanket of snow.

There are things about winter that are nice. Fresh snowfall is breathtaking. Christmas is during the winter, and it wouldn't be nearly as magical if it were, say, July 25. Snow days off from school are always a great thing (not an issue for me, anymore). Sledding is fun (or so I've heard, I've never done it [yes, yes, I was a very deprived child] ). But beyond all these, winter is dreary.

Look outside during the winter. What colors do you see?

Brown and gray.

That's it.

Brown, naked trees, brown snow at the side of the road, and everything else is gray. The sky is gray, the clouds are gray, the snow is gray(okay, light gray). Beyond a simple color issue, there's something about winter that is just dreadful. It's even been medically documented. There's such a thing as "Seasonal Affective Disorder" (also humorously known as SAD) where those with this affliction suffer from bouts of depression during the long, dreary winter months. And honestly, you can't really blame them. There's rarely enough sun to close your eyes and point your face towards the sun, soaking in the warmth and energy coming from the Big Guy in the Sky (the omnipresence of God shows that this term cannot mean Him, so we're using it to describe the sun.) This is something that I like to take every opportunity to do, usually immediately upon coming outside from a long stretch of inside living.

That's what I love about the spring. There something I can't quite describe about it. It's like the world is reborn. The scents of freshly budding spring flowers blow with the wind. The air is buzzing with energy, and the sun is again pumping beautiful beams of golden light. Everything has been waiting for this moment.

I don't really like to be hot. Not really. I hate to sweat. I'm a big guy, and it happens without a whole lot of effort. The sweltering heat of the summer is nothing like the warming, invigorating heat of the spring. Okay, here in the Midwest it can get pretty hot in the spring, but it just gets that much hotter in the summer. So what we're talking about here is moderation. Just enough heat to get the blood pumping and thaw everything that's been frozen since November, but not enough to boil it in it's own bodily fluids. That's a pleasant thought. Not really where I was planning on going with this.

So, to recap, not much Hitler and a whole lot of Springtime philosophizing.

I'm going outside to face the sun.