Let’s sing a gay little spring song (tra la la)
This is the season to sing
So I’d like to suggest
That we all do our best
And warble a song about spring
I lifted those lyrics from the movie Bambi, of course. I know you’ve watched the scene—it’s the one where all the woodland songbirds couple up and flutter among the sumptuously painted backdrop of a blossoming forest, singing so loudly and cheerfully that they awaken the sleeping owl.
And doesn’t that scene capture exactly how we feel in our glorious Atlanta springtime? If we could flit along on the wing and alight on the branch of a budding cherry tree, and then perhaps, chirp out a happy little tune on behalf of the season, wouldn’t we?
Or given the restraints of our wingless bodies, wouldn’t we like to step outside, stretch our legs, and at least clap our hands together and shout, “Yay! It’s spring!” and then maybe punctuate that emotion with a wee pirouette…?
I think we would.
Yet, having grown into adult sensibilities, we settle for walking with a spring in our step.
Yes, I think that idiom is less about a wound -up piece of wire and more about a new season of budding colors and blossoming flowers. Because when springtime rolls around, we walk with the bounce of a fresh beginning. It’s the jubilance of warm breezes and Easter bunnies, of greening grass and nodding daffodils.
It’s sort of a controlled inebriation.
So I think Disney got that right—all creatures, whether walking on four legs or two, whether endowed with the gift of flight or not—celebrate spring in some way. And we humans, as the relatively inhibited species, find a way to greet the new season with joy, by soaking in the sun or cuddling up with an attractive companion, by reveling with composed exuberance.
Here in metro Atlanta, we’ve had our dustings of snow, our pre-emptive closings, our few days of cold snaps. We haven’t been pummeled like those in Boston and the rest of the Northeast. No one in our fair city has dived from a second story balcony into 8-foot-deep snow drifts or skied down a powder-packed main thoroughfare…but that doesn’t mean that we don’t appreciate Spring when it gets here.
Our civil Southern climate is why we live here, after all.
So take a look around and you’ll see it: the spring of Spring.
It’s there when we walk our dogs and drive our kids to soccer practice. It’s beneath the lights that are strung cunningly across the outdoor patio of a neighborhood restaurant, where we laugh and dine and clink wine glasses together. It’s in the jogs around Piedmont Park and the tills in the backyard garden. That spring is there even when we’re lounging at an outdoor concert or standing in the yard with a cold beer, greeting the neighbors.
When the dogwoods bloom and the azaleas burst and the entire city is filled with fluffs of color, that’s when we smile broadly and sing our own little spring song.
Robin Conte is a writer and mother of four who lives in Dunwoody. She can be contacted at email@example.com.