Six Degrees of Spring

Atlanta lawn art (to see this menagerie up-close, click on picture)


What is seasonal about your life? Your job? Although it was Minnesota-gorgeous, I was fairly trapped inside my office for all of last week, only breaking out to take in a Tuesday baseball game and a nice long walk along the Mississippi last night.

I've been surly and not sweet and quite envious of all those folks with the outdoor jobs. The greenskeepers riding carts at the Highland Golf Course, the crew building that scene-blocking parking ramp on Kellogg Blvd, the St. Paul city workers pouring new sidewalks along John Ireland, even the ice cream man dingalinging his way through our neighborhood. Sitting out alone on our front porch each night after the sun went down, I was like Eileen Brennan, the haggish captain on Private Benjamin, and I felt like I should have a long Virginia Slims cig hanging out of my month. I heard someone say, "Shine, Don't Whine," and they ought to feel awful lucky they didn't say that to me.

My daughter came home from college and I was thick with envy. The summer, to play, with friends, no worries. And I remember how I would fill my freedom summers: I'd swim at the quarry in Winona; I'd hike with all those kids along the bluffs; I'd wait tables filled with all those Chicagoland tourists; I'd take trips with my roomies to visit each other's families, me learning to ride an old work horse in Wells, me waterskiing on wood skis on gummy Cedar Lake.

But my days are tied up in work. I find plenty to celebrate the seasons outside of work. But what's seasonal about my job? What summer trends break my work routine?

Well, for one, I show my toes now. I have a friend who had a boss at the MMM campus in Woodbury who frowned on open-toed shoes in the workplace. And my friend just kept wearing them, watching her boss glare down at her feet at every meeting. I dug out some lilac frost polish and painted my toenails. Well, that's enough to make me feel better already.

Second, the museum is now packed with kids, what with all the end-of-year school field trips to our place. The kids are so cute; they scream and slide on our heavily waxed granite floors. I heard one say to another, "And then if you are a teenager you might get ZITS!" And in the women's restroom a fourth-grade girl was sobbing and wiping this humongous chocolate milk spill from the front of her white tee-shirt. There was no way that was coming off. I felt so bad for her I scrounged around some of the departments and asked the program people if I could have one of their pink tees they give as prizes. I went back to the restroom and the poor girl was still sniffling and now her shirt was mucked with shreds of brown paper towel. I gave her the pink tee and she went into the stall to change and compose herself. We both were practically beaming as she walked out with her new "I (Heart) History" tee-shirt.

Third, many of my newly signed authors with academic posts are getting almost giddy, the thrill of their own summers of freedom near at hand. And now they e-mail all the time (the book, I'm ready to work on the book!), like spammers selling Viagra, and I have to curb their enthusiasms while I tend to the books at hand.

Fourth, my kids are heading into their own summer routines. Soon my phone machine will be filled with such messages as: "Mom, where are the hot dogs?" Then, "Mom, where's the ketchup?' And "Mom, where are my golf clubs?" Then, "Mom, when are you coming home?"

Fifth, I can walk down to the Seventh Place Farmers' Market and buy fresh veggies for lunch and a bunch of fresh flowers for my desk.

Sixth, I can eat lunch on the lawn. Wednesday I stole away 15 minutes and laid flat on my back on the grass and called my mom. In the sun. It was perfect.