Spring is one of my favorite times of the year; baby critters are being born, flowers are blooming, more moderate temperatures (even though I love winter, by March the honeymoon is over). There’s Easter and festivals and fishing and turkey hunting. It’s a lovely time.
Except for the dodgasted pollen.
I am blessed not to be allergic to every little bit of dust that comes off of every tree or flowering plant; about the only thing I’m really allergic to is Legustrum, a flowering bush with long tendrils almost like vines. When I get ahold of that, it gets ahold of me. I look like I’ve been beaten with a cat o’nine tails made of mutated poison ivy, and breathe like I’ve been in tear gas training.
As I’ve gotten older, the pollen has been bugging me somewhat. I’ve started sneezing and wheezing and coughing this wonderful stuff out all the time. I don’t know if it’s because of global warming and the trees are fighting back, or if I somehow am supposed to be a pollinator, but it seems like every time I blow my nose the handkerchief or Kleenex is yellow.
I grew up around pine trees, and have made my home amongst them all my life. We’ve always gotten along, pollen and I, but the past few years have been different.
I’m philosophical about it, especially since there’s nothing to do but suffer for a while. Pollen helps create more little trees and more plants. It feeds lots of bugs and bees who spread the pollen to other plants, and in turn are eaten by other animals. It’s a good thing as far as God’s design, but it can be miserable, as I’m sure you know.
It gets on everything; every vehicle will turn yellow. Whatever color it might be before the pollen falls, it will be yellow afterward. My dogs look like they have already been powdered with the Sevin Dust that they’ll be wearing this summer to keep away the fleas. Right now, if you pat one of my dogs, it looks like you’re popping a smoke grenade so a helicopter crew can come in for the rescue.
I slapped an early mosquito the other day, and now I am worried some Green Meanie will decide skeeters are pollinators.
It is one of the first mosquitoes of the year —thankfully, the drought has been keeping the numbers down so far — and this varmint decided it was going to land on me. When I swatted it, it spewed yellow all over everywhere. I’m not trying to be disgusting, considering that this is a family-oriented publication, but I’ve never before splattered a mosquito and had as much pollen as blood. It was amazing.
Again, pollen is necessary, but I wish there was a better way to spread it that didn’t interfere with every day activities like breathing. I don’t get anywhere near as miserable with it as some folks do but the morning ritual at our house has become one of brush the teeth, make the coffee, say the prayers and grab the tissues. That goes for both of us, even though I’m not that sensitive. My poor bride comes from a family with a long and storied history of having allergy problems; I think someone in her family tree is likely allergic to just about every single plant that grows out there that spreads pollen.
This is that time of year when the plants are starting to grow. My beloved persimmon tree by the front gate is struggling but trying to bloom.
My blackberries are already growing rampant with beautiful little blooms that the bees are visiting, and some of the butterflies have started passing through as well. I enjoy the riot of spring colors: the pinks, the dogwood’s white and gold, the fuchsia of the azaleas, the red of the roses, the banks of clover, dandelion and violets.
I just wish there was some way that we could have those colors without having to dust off the outer shade of yellow, but I know that’s how it works.
If you see me wheezing, snuffling and having a sneezing fit, don’t worry. I don’t have anything seriously wrong. I’m just doing my part to feed the bees and the butterflies.
