Spring Fever

For Joan Donaldson

Today, March 20th, is the first day of Spring.  If you are really in the know, you might call it the Vernal Equinox, and do that little experiment in which you test an egg and see if it shares the equilibrium that is supposed to infuse the day.  This winter was not any colder than usual in Texas, yet I have been longing for everything to warm up, even though I know friends from other parts of the country have had it much rougher.  My friends post messages that lament the snow, even if it does look beautiful.  Rarely have I had to deal with ice on my windshield in Houston, although it was freezing when I visited San Antonio in February. I hadn’t even thought about ice since I lived in North Carolina, but there, I just told everyone I was from Texas and stayed inside until the weather got better.  Trust me: they didn’t want me driving either, and all it took was one spill on some black ice in a parking lot to make me pretty much succumb to complete hibernation during winter storms.

But today, in Texas, is perfect.  It is not humid, it is not too hot, it is not too cold, and when I take my walk I see all the greenery and think it looks like it has been spring for ages.  Nature can fool you that way: it changes costumes, makes you forget the previous scene.  I am supposed to be running, but I have injured my heel, and I am sort of grateful that I am walking so that I can really look around me.  Things are starting to bud, and I can see the holes in the telephone poles from the woodpeckers that I usually hear when I am running.  Usually, they are as loud as jackhammers, relentlessly pounding away at the helpless poles.  Today, I don’t hear them, but I can see the magnificence of their efforts.  Those woodpeckers don’t give up. Continue reading

Calling All Angels

cwp Friday I couldn’t decide what made me more excited:  the thought of hearing Gavin DeGraw, or Train.  In a perfect storm of Friday, Summer, and My Favorite Bands, both were on the same stage in a concert that I couldn’t have dreamed up.  They were even going to have a band in between called The Script who came all the way from Ireland. They were all performing at The Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion in The Woodlands, an award-winning planned community off of I-45 outside of Houston, yet part of Houston all at the same time.

I had a friend who was supposed to come with me, but she ended up having to work, which is not always a bad thing.  So I recruited my twelve year old son, Christopher, to come with me.  I make him listen to a lot of Gavin DeGraw and Train in my car, so I knew he would know a lot of the words, even if he had internalized them under duress. Trust me:  we have “I Don’t Wanna Be” and “Soul Sister” down cold.  The thing I love about The Cynthia Woods Pavilion is that it is outside and easy to get to, and you could bring your whole family if you felt like it.  But I also wanted Christopher to know about George Phydias Mitchell, an amazing man who died last week on July 26th.  He was the man who developed The Woodlands, where over 120,000 people now reside, and he named the concert venue we were going to after his wife, Cynthia Woods Mitchell. Continue reading