It's my favorite time of year. Strangely shaped buds are pushing to the surface, pollen is covering every car like natural gold leaf and small town flea markets are filling up green fields with shiny, shiny objects, patiently waiting to be scooped up and given a new home. Ahhhh, choo, spring! Seeds are seductive in their flat decorative packs, but root balls are so much more animated in their bondage. The ropes tied so tightly confirm that nature is untrainable and wild, hoping a good knot will subdue it's unleashable growth. Not as ripped as Wolverine, but more powerful.
Along with the smell of growing things, Spring allows us once again to search through other people's belongings with gusto. I pretend to be on the lookout for binoculars, but actually enjoy the microscopic human analysis that a good estate sale can offer. I dig in drawers to see how the elderly former owner categorized scarves that haven't been worn since the Tet offensive, but require devotional storage just in case. Kitchens yield tools that are inexplicable in today's canned or store bought lifestyle, and basements harbor vast piles of mystery. Drill bits the size of rolling pins stand next to rusted pesticide cans that suggest foul play.
The dogs! The dogs of country flea markets and spring estate sales are especially charming. They too are bored with winter's forced anti-social behavior and are ever so happy to smell each new visitor. Even though the sign says "No Dogs" the little scrappy ones slip by and dart through legs desperate for dropped doughnuts or hot dog bits from the previous nights demolition derby crowd. By the time Fourth of July slinks in, we'll all be tired out and bored with the rummage sale routine. All the good stuff will be taken, nothing to do but wait until the fall smells.