Barefoot and... barbecues

I am an advocate for autumn. However, every spring I encounter a little crisis in which I wonder, if in-fact, my favorite season is spring. Of course this has only been an issue since I moved away from Orange County, where it is always spring. Perhaps, to me, spring feels like home.

We have tiny little green buds growing on the tree outside our bedroom window. The tree, which is a constant reminder of what season it is, and the one I tell myself I should take pictures of to chronicle it's changing. Chandler goes outside everyday and plays in the yard underneath the tree, and we barbecued last week underneath the tree.

Barbecuing smells like spring. And I love potato salad.

In the spring people stop asking me if my feet are cold in my sandals, and old people stop telling my that my sons needs to wear shoes (not sandals) "in this kind of weather". This reminds me that soon, we will no longer need to wear our shoes in the back yard; and the 6 year old inside of rejoices. Do you love it when your feet become black, your husband refuses to touch them, and your two year old says, "mommy, yucky feet"? maybe it's just me

I planted daffodils in the front yard. If your drive down the residential road that leads to WSCC there are houses filled with old lady gardeners who all decided together to plant daffodils. At least that's how I imagine it. They inspired me, and I am hoping to join their old lady daffodil club, if I can keep the flowers alive.

I waited a long time for spring this year.. the last half of winter was cold and wet, and I seemed to smell of vomit for days on end.

Spring, this year, brings health (most of the time), and excitement for a new life. A new life more important that the onions that we grew last year. Ironically, last spring Julie and I focused our efforts on growing new life in our garden; this spring we're both growing a different kind of new life. Her's coming much sooner than mine.

I look forward to a life time of new life, bare feet, and barbecues in the backyard. I hope my children understand the joys of the first green buds on the tree, and the first smell of hot coals.

Maybe some day I will start my own old lady daffodil club.