The Rites of Spring

It snowed a few days ago. In late March. In full sun, and with flowers blooming, and green grass on the ground. Weird.

Despite this atmospheric anomaly, I'm definitely seeing signs that Spring is about to emerge. Plants are beginning to bud, and birds are beginning to sing. The former pleases my wife, who is an enthusiastic amateur gardener. She seems to possess an internal clock that sends her to the local lawn and garden center a week or two before Winter's last frost — probably similar to the urge that sends salmon upstream. Whenever I find myself driving home from Lowe's with a new collection of potted plants nestled safely in the back seat, as I did two weekends ago, I know that Spring is just around the corner.

The bit with the birdsong is my part of our hearth-and-home equation. While my wife is the family gardener, I find, to my great surprise, I'm slowly becoming a bit of a birder as I get older. Oh, not the sort that takes to the local refuge with high-powered binoculars on the weekends. Not yet, anyway. But I am definitely much more conscious of our avian friends as I go about my day; increasingly to the point of distraction. More and more frequently, I will stop in mid-walk as I try to identify the tweeting thing perching on the light pole in the parking lot. And, more and more often, I remember to refill the bird feeders parked outside my window.

If all goes well, I am able to spare a little time on Saturday mornings watching the flurry of warblers and sparrows as they vie for sunflower and thistle seeds. And slowly — very slowly — I am trying to become acquainted with the birds that call the habitat of our nearby woods home.

This morning, there was the odd Tufted Titmouse (which I particular like for its slate blue and white coloring), one or two Cardinals (my favorite since boyhood) and — just identified — a sizable family of Pine Warblers, with olive backs and yellow chests. My chief challenge at the moment is identifying a mottled brown sparrow, some of which have highlights of bright yellow hidden amid their wing and tail feathers, and some of which do not. It is our most common houseguest, and so far, our most mysterious.

It is this sort of thing that I find appealing about birdwatching — the challenge of identifying specific species amid the dizzying variety that God has given us. It appeals to my intellectual curiosity, and gives me a tiny window into the diversity of His creation. Plus, I just like the cheerful little things; hearing birdsong has raised my spirits on many a grim morning.

The other herald of Spring is, for me, rather unexpected. The other day, my wife (good woman that she is), was channel surfing, and felt the urge to stop for a moment on a pre-season Pittsburgh Pirates game. Those that know me will remember that, as an 8-year-old, I was a fiercely dedicated Pirates fan. One of the highlights of my life was when my father took me to Three Rivers Stadium, and I was able to see legendary players like Bill Mazeroski, Roberto Clemente, and my hero Willie Stargell, play in person. Later that year, I watched eagerly as that same team brought home a World Series trophy. So in my first years as a fan, my team went on to take the championship — in retrospect, a bit of a mixed blessing, but one I wouldn't trade for anything.

Since the 1971 World Series, my enthusiasm for baseball has waxed and waned — mostly waned. I slept through the 1979, when my hero led the team to another World Series win. I was awake in 1992, when we vied for the pennant, but walked away in disgust after we were shut down by the Atlanta Braves. And for a long time after that, I simply didn't have it in me to care anymore. The once-and-future worst team in the league, the Bucs had lost their shot at redemption, and (even worse) at the hands of the hated Braves. Since baseball now only evoked pain, anger and bitterness in me, I more or less walked away.

My master, C.S. Lewis, says in The Great Divorce that for a thing to be resurrected, it must first be killed. And the type of fan I was then was certainly deserving of death, in the metaphorical sense. Baseball only brought out the worst in me, though that was only a symptom of a deeper problem that I will not touch on here. As such, it was good that I ceased to follow it, and that my love for the game, twisted and warped by bitterness and disappointment, was allowed to die.

Imagine, then, my surprise when those few minutes of Grapefruit League ball woke up the 8-year-old boy who had once loved the game. Since then, I have downloaded the MLB app for my phone and tablet, begun following the team's schedule, and have taken the first steps to learn this year's lineup. I haven't watched a baseball game in years, and I've got a lot of catching up to do. But that's part of the appeal — like birding, there is a complexity to baseball that appeals to my intellectual curiosity. There are players to learn about, rules to sort out, and standings to keep track of. It's early days yet, but there seems to be lots here to sink my teeth into.

The Pirates are, according to the admittedly meaningless Grapefruit League standings, among the worst teams in the league. But right now, I don't care. Opening Day is Monday against the Cubs, and as it stands right now, we all have the same record win-loss record. And so, it is with the spirit of optimism endemic to opening seasons that I close with a hopeful, and grateful, Go Bucs!