Springtime doesn’t always go by the calendar

Even with the calendar announcing that we are in the season called spring, Mother Nature howled with laughter at the very thought. To prove her point, she lashed the East Coast the last couple of weeks with a reminder of just who was in charge, regardless of what that piece of paper proclaimed. And she blew enough wind up the corridor to run for political office.

But here at the beach, I saw my first sign of spring. No, it wasn't the red, red robin that we praise in tribute of the season. Nor was it the early daffodils poking their frills through the cold, raw rain. This is all fake news. I know fake news is in today, but most people can spot it like the years-ago headline, "Dewey Defeats Truman."

I lean on something more reliable with the change of seasons around here. No, the sign of spring I observed and shook my head in acknowledgement of was a man who was walking on Rehoboth Avenue. He was bent over and wearing an aged pair of shorts. That wasn't enough, though. It was the display of blindingly milk-white legs and pitch-black socks encased in a pair of sandals. Now that's what I'm talking about. Surely the gods of spring have arrived, I nodded through a couple of falling snowflakes. And speaking of weather, I just wish the meteorologists would wipe those smiles off their faces when doing the broadcast. Head-for-the-hills kind of warnings are not something I take lightly.

Now, I really don't have anything against meteorologists, but when they give the temperature reading, they always have to ruin it by adding the wind chill factor, which usually is something around a temperature that penguins need to survive. I know what it feels like outside just by opening the door! Enough with the howling wind piling on; just give us the weather, or else I will have to do something drastic like putting on an aged pair of shorts.

But I digress. Some would point to other, more noticeable signs of spring, like crowds of visitors starting to gather. You can see the true snowbirds along the side of the road, in the fields, stopping to feast before heading back to their places of origin. And like the birds, the human snowbirds are packing their bags, loaded with such precious cargo as plastic palm trees, miniature ceramic girls doing the hula, and T-shirts that say, "Tourist from hell." It's "Northward, wagons ho!" time.

They also are stopping to feast by the side of the road. But most of them, to their credit, prefer the buffets and food shacks along the route. Yes, soon we no longer will have the place to ourselves. It's like knowing that distant cousin who constantly paces and jingles pennies in his pockets will be dropping by in the next couple of weeks. Now there is a real head-for-the-hills forecast.

It didn't take much for those first signs of spring years ago. There was always some woman getting a head start by beating with a tennis racket on a rug that was draped over a clothesline. And a guy could tell just because the oil light on the one car he had kept blinking. Now those were solid clues.

Of course, you can always use the old tried and true method of saying spring has arrived. The day you put your coat or sweater away is the one. If the slipper fits, wear it.