It was a regular comment where I grew up that the last child born to a couple was called "the caboose." My fourth child was just that. But she will be 35 in July, and I feel a little old. She was, as all my children were, a surprise, as her mother and I didn't have the sense to plan a family. Also, the things that are discussed openly now simply weren't discussed back then. So, approaching 32 years of age, I learned I was to be a father again. And there was no thought of anything but bringing this child into the world.
I learned that my fourth child was a girl only when she was born. Again, at that time, couples simply didn't find out until until the baby arrived. I was waiting in the wee hours of the morning when a nurse came out with this beautiful newborn and said she was sorry, it's a girl. And I said that was fine. I suppose she thought because I had 2 girls and 1 boy that I had wanted another son. In truth, it didn't matter to me. She was absolutely beautiful even before she was cleaned up. She was born 17 days shy of my one year anniversary in Alcoholics Anonymous.
Part of the joy I felt came from the fact that I was going to get a chance to be a sober father, something my three other children hadn't enjoyed in their early years. She never saw me drinking or drunk. For the first 7 1/2 years of her life, I did a pretty good job overall. She attended a private Episcopal kindergarten, then school. She was an open, laughing, happy child whom I took with me everywhere I could, even to the grocery store. Then came the divorce, but that's another story.
My beautiful daughter later graduated from high school with honors, then graduated from university Magna Cum Laude. She has completed almost all requirements for an M. A. degree, and she has been a teacher both in the United States and in Jordan. While she was working her way through university, she met a man from Amman, Jordan, who had come here as a student. They were both working at a barbeque joint in Birmingham, Alabama. He is a Palestianian, one of many whose family was forced off their land by the Israelis many years ago. He and my daughter fell in love and married.
My son-in-law is a handsome and intelligent man who is a good husband, provider, and father, and who, with my daughter, has brought into this world four of the most beautiful children I've ever seen who love their "Baba." Some years ago, my son-in-law decided to return sincerely to the religion he was born into, Islam. He quit working in an establishment that sold alcohol and went to work at the local mosque. He later became a successful automobile dealer, which work he continues in Jordan. And he continues to be a good husband, provider, and father.
On her own, my daughter converted to Islam and is today a person whose life is guided by the precepts of her religion. Out of the home, she dresses in traditional Muslim clothing for women. But thank God her beautiful face is still uncovered for all to see. I would love to post a picture of her taken in a Japanese restaurant in Los Angeles when I was hospitalized near death. But obviously, for privacy's sake, I can't do that. At present, she lives in Amman, Jordan with her family, and I miss her.
She's visiting in Birmingham now, and I plan to go down as soon as I can. She has two small children whom I've never met, and they need to meet their "Giddo" but not nearly as much as I need to meet them. Parts of my life have been absolutely wonderful, and I've just written about one of them.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
California Dreamin' Two
Sometimes the elephant sits in the room for months and months before anybody says anything. That's what happened with me and my wife once it really hit us that we really are living in Minnesota. Today, after my physical therapy, I came home to pick her up and take her to the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for a flight to Cleveland for her company. I'd been fighting back tears all day, not exactly sure why, so when she sat down on the day bed across from my favorite chair, I just lost it.
After I let the pressure out, I said, "I hate it here." She replied immediately, "So do I." Finally! Both of us had been feeling this for quite some time, but neither wanted to say it, so as not to cause the other to feel bad or worry for the other. Now we were able to talk about it. We both agreed that almost everybody we know and love is in Los Angeles, where we lived for almost 20 years and left a year ago. We came to Minnesota for good reasons and with all the information we could've had at the time. But this isn't home and never will be.
Regardless of all the negatives you've probably heard about the City of Angels, it's a fascinating place to live. There's so much more to do in L. A. than most of its citizens ever get around to. There are restaurants of every variety and price range. And the A. A. in Los Angeles is the best in the world, not to mention that our oldest and dearest friends are there.
I don't know what we're going to do, at least for a while, as my wife's very good job is only three months old. Lucky for us, her multinational employer also has locations all over the United States.
For now, we'll take it one day at a time, do what's in front of us, and let the future unfold as it will. Wish us luck.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Day After Fathers' Day
When I look back on my childhood and adolescence, there is one constant: baseball. The only significant man in my youth, my grandfather, told me stories about the baseball players he had seen as younger man, such as Dizzy Dean. And one of the places we went together was Rickwood Field in Birmingham, Alabama, where the Class AA Birmingham Barons played. This was back when major league baseball wasn't so watered down and also a time when many, many cities and towns supported a minor league team, Class AAA down to Class D. Rickwood Field, where I spent so many happy hours, is the oldest baseball stadium in the United States, opening in 1912, days before Wrigley Field in Chicago.
There were only 16 major league teams then, so few of the thousands of minor leaguers could ever hope to spend time in the majors. But we pulled for our minor league players because they were our own, and the Birmingham Barons usually fielded a respectable team. They were in the Southern Association with the New Orleans Pelicans, the Little Rock Travelers, the Memphis Chicks, the Atlanta Crackers, the Chattanooga Lookouts, the Nashville Vols, and the Mobile Bears. The pennant winner played the Texas League pennant winner in a mini-World Series each year.
Going to Rickwood Field with my grandfather is one of my fondest childhood memories. He and I went to the Southern League All-Star game one year, and I saw Jim Lemon hit 4 home runs and barely miss a 5th. Lemon, of course, made it to the major leagues and stayed for a while. Also at Rickwood, in later years, I got autographs from Hank Aaron, Andy Pafko, Eddie Matthews, and Mickey Mantle. Mickey and the Yankees were coming off the field after an exhibition game with the Barons, and I reached through a metal fence and asked for his autograph. He just grumbled. Then Yogi Berra said, "Aw, come on, Mick, give the kid your autograph." And he did. Mickey wasn't much more than a kid himself then. How I wish I had all those autographed scorecards that I kept for years.
Jim Lemon wasn't the only future big leaguer I saw in Class AA baseball on his way up to "the bigs." There was also Bill Virdon, who later played for and managed the St. Louis Cardinals. There, too, was Gus Triandos, who played for the Yankees after his stint in Birmingham. But the last great player I saw during his minor league days was Reggie Jackson. The Barons were associated with various major league clubs during those years, a farm team of the big team. And I saw many of these wonderful players because several major league teams would, upon breaking camp after Spring Training in Florida (they all went to Florida then), play exhibitions with various minor league teams on their way north to their major league home cities. I saw a Baron pitcher strike out Ted Williams twice in one of these exhibitions. If that pitcher is still alive, I'll bet he's telling his grandchildren about it even now. And even striking out, Ted Williams had the sweetest swing I ever saw, before or since.
In those days, I listened to Barons' games on the radio. On a good night for the team, I can still hear the announcer saying when the bases were loaded, that they were F. O. B., Full of Barons. Road games were also broadcast but with a twist. The announcer wasn't actually with the team! He was calling the game in a Birmingham studio from a ticker tape that tap-tap-tapped each play as it happened. His obvious embellishments made it seem almost as if he were there, but our love for baseball was such that we didn't really care. My love for baseball carried into my teen years, and I still have a copy of the 1954 Mutual Baseball Almanac that I ordered through the mail. It cost a dollar, and it's in pristine condition still. Mutual Radio carried the Game of the Week. Television broadcasts were quite rare, though the World Series was televised.
One last, very important thing. As kids, most of us didn't join any formal leagues. We just got a team together and challenged another group of kids. We played baseball for pure fun. There were few, if any, adults around to mess things up. If we won, fine. If we lost, we still got on our bikes and pedaled to the nearest store for a cold drink (that's what we called soda pop back then) to take the edge off the hot Alabama summer.
It's been said that it was a more innocent time. I think it was for most of us. And baseball was a part of my innocence and my life with my sweet grandfather. What more could a kid ask for?
An important social footnote should be added to this near idyllic description of my life growing up in Birmingham, Alabama. It wasn't an innocent time for everybody. Until I was an adult, there were never any black faces in the stands at Rickwood Field when the Barons were playing. There was another team back then, the Birmingham Black Barons, a team that Willie Mays played for on his way up. He's from a little town, Fairfield, Alabama, where the steel mills roared and belched, not far from where I lived. Further, in the early sixties, as blacks demanded their freedom with marches and demonstrations in Birmingham, there was no baseball at Rickwood. The locals thought it better to shut down than to risk that they might have to attend games with blacks. Fortunately for everybody, Rickwood Field opened up again, and it was after the re-opening that I saw Reggie Jackson play for the Barons. But today Rickwood is empty to professional baseball. The new stadium is located in Hoover, Alabama, across Red Mountain, in a white neighborhood. The area around Rickwood Field is now peopled by black folks.
There were only 16 major league teams then, so few of the thousands of minor leaguers could ever hope to spend time in the majors. But we pulled for our minor league players because they were our own, and the Birmingham Barons usually fielded a respectable team. They were in the Southern Association with the New Orleans Pelicans, the Little Rock Travelers, the Memphis Chicks, the Atlanta Crackers, the Chattanooga Lookouts, the Nashville Vols, and the Mobile Bears. The pennant winner played the Texas League pennant winner in a mini-World Series each year.
Going to Rickwood Field with my grandfather is one of my fondest childhood memories. He and I went to the Southern League All-Star game one year, and I saw Jim Lemon hit 4 home runs and barely miss a 5th. Lemon, of course, made it to the major leagues and stayed for a while. Also at Rickwood, in later years, I got autographs from Hank Aaron, Andy Pafko, Eddie Matthews, and Mickey Mantle. Mickey and the Yankees were coming off the field after an exhibition game with the Barons, and I reached through a metal fence and asked for his autograph. He just grumbled. Then Yogi Berra said, "Aw, come on, Mick, give the kid your autograph." And he did. Mickey wasn't much more than a kid himself then. How I wish I had all those autographed scorecards that I kept for years.
Jim Lemon wasn't the only future big leaguer I saw in Class AA baseball on his way up to "the bigs." There was also Bill Virdon, who later played for and managed the St. Louis Cardinals. There, too, was Gus Triandos, who played for the Yankees after his stint in Birmingham. But the last great player I saw during his minor league days was Reggie Jackson. The Barons were associated with various major league clubs during those years, a farm team of the big team. And I saw many of these wonderful players because several major league teams would, upon breaking camp after Spring Training in Florida (they all went to Florida then), play exhibitions with various minor league teams on their way north to their major league home cities. I saw a Baron pitcher strike out Ted Williams twice in one of these exhibitions. If that pitcher is still alive, I'll bet he's telling his grandchildren about it even now. And even striking out, Ted Williams had the sweetest swing I ever saw, before or since.
In those days, I listened to Barons' games on the radio. On a good night for the team, I can still hear the announcer saying when the bases were loaded, that they were F. O. B., Full of Barons. Road games were also broadcast but with a twist. The announcer wasn't actually with the team! He was calling the game in a Birmingham studio from a ticker tape that tap-tap-tapped each play as it happened. His obvious embellishments made it seem almost as if he were there, but our love for baseball was such that we didn't really care. My love for baseball carried into my teen years, and I still have a copy of the 1954 Mutual Baseball Almanac that I ordered through the mail. It cost a dollar, and it's in pristine condition still. Mutual Radio carried the Game of the Week. Television broadcasts were quite rare, though the World Series was televised.
One last, very important thing. As kids, most of us didn't join any formal leagues. We just got a team together and challenged another group of kids. We played baseball for pure fun. There were few, if any, adults around to mess things up. If we won, fine. If we lost, we still got on our bikes and pedaled to the nearest store for a cold drink (that's what we called soda pop back then) to take the edge off the hot Alabama summer.
It's been said that it was a more innocent time. I think it was for most of us. And baseball was a part of my innocence and my life with my sweet grandfather. What more could a kid ask for?
An important social footnote should be added to this near idyllic description of my life growing up in Birmingham, Alabama. It wasn't an innocent time for everybody. Until I was an adult, there were never any black faces in the stands at Rickwood Field when the Barons were playing. There was another team back then, the Birmingham Black Barons, a team that Willie Mays played for on his way up. He's from a little town, Fairfield, Alabama, where the steel mills roared and belched, not far from where I lived. Further, in the early sixties, as blacks demanded their freedom with marches and demonstrations in Birmingham, there was no baseball at Rickwood. The locals thought it better to shut down than to risk that they might have to attend games with blacks. Fortunately for everybody, Rickwood Field opened up again, and it was after the re-opening that I saw Reggie Jackson play for the Barons. But today Rickwood is empty to professional baseball. The new stadium is located in Hoover, Alabama, across Red Mountain, in a white neighborhood. The area around Rickwood Field is now peopled by black folks.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Fathers' Day
The phone rang about an hour ago, and my only son said cheerfully, "Happy Father's Day." And I told him it was. He's one of those people who would rather call than send a card, but I like to hear his voice. A lot of men aren't good at cards. I, however, am one who is. I love sending cards of all kinds. In both my marriages, I've sent out most of the Christmas cards. In fact, I've been sending them out for almost 45 years. I send out cards on almost any occasion I can find.
My son had his only child, also a son, with him today down in Alabama. The divorce decree allows limited visitation, with more time in summer than during the school year. My grandson, who's 5 1/2 years old, had attended Vacation Bible School last week, which truly rang a bell with me, as it was one of the activities I enjoyed back in Alabama in the late forties. The religious instruction didn't take with me, but I remember the experience of Vacation Bible School as a positive.
I never got to give a card to my father, as he left my mother and me when I was about 5 years old. I never saw him again. He died alone, an unrecovered alcoholic, in a small apartment above a grocery store in Sacramento, California, in 1981. He was found on the floor of the apartment by the grocery store owner. His sister, my favorite aunt, told me he had cut his drinking down to a few beers. I never could do that, so if he did, I salute him. I missed him for so many years and was angry, but when I found out about his alcoholism, I at least understood his behavior, for I was one, too. It didn't excuse what he did, but it certainly made it comprehensible to me, and I was no longer angry with him.
Fathers' Day may be one of those holidays made up by card companies, but so what? I enjoyed hearing from my son.
My son had his only child, also a son, with him today down in Alabama. The divorce decree allows limited visitation, with more time in summer than during the school year. My grandson, who's 5 1/2 years old, had attended Vacation Bible School last week, which truly rang a bell with me, as it was one of the activities I enjoyed back in Alabama in the late forties. The religious instruction didn't take with me, but I remember the experience of Vacation Bible School as a positive.
I never got to give a card to my father, as he left my mother and me when I was about 5 years old. I never saw him again. He died alone, an unrecovered alcoholic, in a small apartment above a grocery store in Sacramento, California, in 1981. He was found on the floor of the apartment by the grocery store owner. His sister, my favorite aunt, told me he had cut his drinking down to a few beers. I never could do that, so if he did, I salute him. I missed him for so many years and was angry, but when I found out about his alcoholism, I at least understood his behavior, for I was one, too. It didn't excuse what he did, but it certainly made it comprehensible to me, and I was no longer angry with him.
Fathers' Day may be one of those holidays made up by card companies, but so what? I enjoyed hearing from my son.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Easy Rider
In the most recent issue of Newsweek, Sir Paul McCartney said that he felt it hard to believe it's actually he who is approaching the age of 65. I certainly understand the sentiment, for I, as most who live this long, still feel in our minds that we're much younger. Also, for most, all we have to do is look in the mirror to confirm the reality we sometimes just don't want to face.
With aging, for me, has also come a degenerative spinal condition combined with arthritis and stenosis, the surgery for which left me in about as much pain as I experienced before the surgery. It's difficult for me to walk more than ten feet or so without stopping to allow the pain to ease, even with my cane or walker. As a result, our outings are always taken with any walking distance in mind, such as our last Sunday on the banks of the Mississippi River. Had a bench not been relatively close to the parking, I simply would've missed the duck show I described in a recent blog.
But there is a solution, though not physiologically. Have you ever seen those commercials for The Scooter Store? They've probably been showing for years, but of course I never paid much attention until I couldn't walk very well. So I sent for literature and came to find out that they fold up such that I could get one in the back of my PT Cruiser if the back seats are down. And I'm no novice. I've had a little scooter driving practice at such places as Cub Foods and Home Depot, which are huge buildings that I couldn't walk around if I wanted to. Of course I used a scooter at the Mall of America. Actually, I look pretty cool zipping around.
It's just another one of the adjustments to aging and physical deterioration. But it is what it is! Hell, all I need is a Captain America motorcycle helmet and people will think I'm Peter Fonda!
With aging, for me, has also come a degenerative spinal condition combined with arthritis and stenosis, the surgery for which left me in about as much pain as I experienced before the surgery. It's difficult for me to walk more than ten feet or so without stopping to allow the pain to ease, even with my cane or walker. As a result, our outings are always taken with any walking distance in mind, such as our last Sunday on the banks of the Mississippi River. Had a bench not been relatively close to the parking, I simply would've missed the duck show I described in a recent blog.
But there is a solution, though not physiologically. Have you ever seen those commercials for The Scooter Store? They've probably been showing for years, but of course I never paid much attention until I couldn't walk very well. So I sent for literature and came to find out that they fold up such that I could get one in the back of my PT Cruiser if the back seats are down. And I'm no novice. I've had a little scooter driving practice at such places as Cub Foods and Home Depot, which are huge buildings that I couldn't walk around if I wanted to. Of course I used a scooter at the Mall of America. Actually, I look pretty cool zipping around.
It's just another one of the adjustments to aging and physical deterioration. But it is what it is! Hell, all I need is a Captain America motorcycle helmet and people will think I'm Peter Fonda!
Monday, June 4, 2007
Back to the Future
Even after the wonderful Sunday my wife and I had on the banks of the Mississippi River, one of my first thoughts this morning after waking before sunrise (not by choice) was how much I still miss Los Angeles. I love the beauty of nature, but I love a city more. Sitting beside the Mississippi yesterday reminded me of the canoe/camping trips I'd taken as a boy on the Tennessee River near Chattanooga, Tennessee. I went to a summer camp for six weeks in each of four summers, and that was one of our activities. I was as much an outdoor kid as any. But somehow over the years, I fell in love with the idea of a city, and every visit to Los Angeles only confirmed what I felt.
So, when I moved to L. A. in 1987, I felt at home. Of course, when my wife and I decided to leave Florida, we could've gone other places. But as I obliquely mentioned in an earlier blog, the deciding factor for us was the quality of the Alcoholics Anonymous program as we saw it in the city on a visit six years earlier. Because we have a daily reprieve from our disease, we knew that it was important for us to be in a place where our recovery program was strong. It was strong in Los Angeles and still is. As for anonymity, I break no traditions in revealing my own membership in A. A. My wife allows me to identify her as a recovering drunk, too.
Just after we arrived in our new home, I returned to a place where we had attended meetings during our 1981 visit, the Radford A. A. Clubhouse on Radford Avenue, adjacent to the CBS Studio in, of all places, Studio City, California. I soon discovered a Monday night Men's Stag meeting at Radford, which I attended each week for years after. What I found in this gathering was a fellowship of men which I hadn't felt since the Marine Corps. The Men's Stag at Radford was a sometimes racous, sometimes somber meeting of men who wanted to recover. There were laughter, tears, and sharing with one another at surprisingly deep levels, and there was that wonderful feeling of belonging, of family.
The Radford Clubhouse has since been evicted from the old location because some of our members couldn't respect the neighbors sufficiently. Their noise and other infractions caused the city to force us to leave after people living nearby complained, and even with free legal help from one of our members, it was a lost cause. There is a new Radford Clubhouse on Ventura Blvd. in Studio City. It's nice but doesn't have the history, the feel I used to get just walking into the old place. And there is a Monday night Men's Stag in the new place, but the bulk of the men who used to populate the old meeting now meet in a church in Sherman Oaks, which I attended regularly before I moved to Minnesota. I miss it mightily, and even though it's not what we once enjoyed, it's still the best meeting in town.
Now you know. My wife and I are recovering alcoholics. It's been many, many years since I was an active drunk, my wife, too. Today I'm especially grateful to A. A. for always being there for me to use, participate in, and occasionally, do some good outside myself. And when one of us goes to a strange town, he or she automatically has a temporary "home" to go to. Last weekend, my wife and I attended the Gopher State Roundup, a huge gathering of members and friends from all over Minnesota and nearby Wisconsin. One of the speakers we heard share his story was from Covina, California, just outside Los Angeles. It was almost like being truly home again.
So, when I moved to L. A. in 1987, I felt at home. Of course, when my wife and I decided to leave Florida, we could've gone other places. But as I obliquely mentioned in an earlier blog, the deciding factor for us was the quality of the Alcoholics Anonymous program as we saw it in the city on a visit six years earlier. Because we have a daily reprieve from our disease, we knew that it was important for us to be in a place where our recovery program was strong. It was strong in Los Angeles and still is. As for anonymity, I break no traditions in revealing my own membership in A. A. My wife allows me to identify her as a recovering drunk, too.
Just after we arrived in our new home, I returned to a place where we had attended meetings during our 1981 visit, the Radford A. A. Clubhouse on Radford Avenue, adjacent to the CBS Studio in, of all places, Studio City, California. I soon discovered a Monday night Men's Stag meeting at Radford, which I attended each week for years after. What I found in this gathering was a fellowship of men which I hadn't felt since the Marine Corps. The Men's Stag at Radford was a sometimes racous, sometimes somber meeting of men who wanted to recover. There were laughter, tears, and sharing with one another at surprisingly deep levels, and there was that wonderful feeling of belonging, of family.
The Radford Clubhouse has since been evicted from the old location because some of our members couldn't respect the neighbors sufficiently. Their noise and other infractions caused the city to force us to leave after people living nearby complained, and even with free legal help from one of our members, it was a lost cause. There is a new Radford Clubhouse on Ventura Blvd. in Studio City. It's nice but doesn't have the history, the feel I used to get just walking into the old place. And there is a Monday night Men's Stag in the new place, but the bulk of the men who used to populate the old meeting now meet in a church in Sherman Oaks, which I attended regularly before I moved to Minnesota. I miss it mightily, and even though it's not what we once enjoyed, it's still the best meeting in town.
Now you know. My wife and I are recovering alcoholics. It's been many, many years since I was an active drunk, my wife, too. Today I'm especially grateful to A. A. for always being there for me to use, participate in, and occasionally, do some good outside myself. And when one of us goes to a strange town, he or she automatically has a temporary "home" to go to. Last weekend, my wife and I attended the Gopher State Roundup, a huge gathering of members and friends from all over Minnesota and nearby Wisconsin. One of the speakers we heard share his story was from Covina, California, just outside Los Angeles. It was almost like being truly home again.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Old Man River
This afternoon my wife and I spent some quiet time on the banks of the Mississippi River as it slowly wound its way through Minneapolis. There are many parks along the banks on the edge of the city, and this one allowed us to be close to the river. We just sat and listened to the silence. Then my wife turned and said, "Look at the Canadian Geese." I turned to my right, and about twenty yards from us were a number of adult geese and many fuzzy ducklings walking and feeding in the grass. They were headed right toward us. The adults were larger than I would have thought, never having seen one so close to me.
As they got closer, I counted 17 little ones walking with two adults. They continued their path toward us, got on the sidewalk in front of our bench, and walked right in front of us, almost within touching distance. The two adults, as they passed by with their babies, lowered their heads, extended their long necks foward, and gave out a little "honk." We were both just flabbergasted. I had never been so close to untamed animals living their lives as animals do. Wow!
Then two more adults with seven ducklings a bit older and larger did the very same thing. And each lowered its head, stretched its long neck out, and give out a little "honk" as it passed. It was all so beautiful. The third group with two adults and several older ducklings, however, got almost to us, when one adult gave a sharp "honk," and they turned and went behind us. She obviously was not as trusting as the others.
As the ducks moved slowly away, feeding as they walked, my wife and I just looked at each other with smiles of amazement and wonder at the beauty all around us: the ducks and their babies; the river; the lush greenery of a Minnesota Spring. I'm so glad we went out today.
As they got closer, I counted 17 little ones walking with two adults. They continued their path toward us, got on the sidewalk in front of our bench, and walked right in front of us, almost within touching distance. The two adults, as they passed by with their babies, lowered their heads, extended their long necks foward, and gave out a little "honk." We were both just flabbergasted. I had never been so close to untamed animals living their lives as animals do. Wow!
Then two more adults with seven ducklings a bit older and larger did the very same thing. And each lowered its head, stretched its long neck out, and give out a little "honk" as it passed. It was all so beautiful. The third group with two adults and several older ducklings, however, got almost to us, when one adult gave a sharp "honk," and they turned and went behind us. She obviously was not as trusting as the others.
As the ducks moved slowly away, feeding as they walked, my wife and I just looked at each other with smiles of amazement and wonder at the beauty all around us: the ducks and their babies; the river; the lush greenery of a Minnesota Spring. I'm so glad we went out today.
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