Spring in NYC

A lot of New Yorkers complained about the winter. It was cold and long and, by Chicago standards, not too bad. I hate to be that guy. You know the type, the guy from Hudson Bay who says, "You think Chicago winters are bad. Let me tell you what frostbite really feels like..." and then removes his prosthetic nose. 

Well, maybe we don't ALL know him. I don't think I've met him, either. Still, like anything crazy, the best justification crazy people can show is by pointing out something even crazier. 

So Spring sprang. (SPROING.) And finally all this greenery at the end of our street hides the fact that the street doesn't end, that eight million people live here to buy up all the cat food in bulk so that Trader Joe's must establish firm limits on the number of cans we can buy and apple sauce is tightly constrained, particularly if you're in the mood for strawberry flavor. But bagels you can get pretty much everywhere. 

I read many years ago that trees in major cities grow lower than the same species in the forest. Despite all that additional carbon dioxide the city stresses them. I'm grateful for what they manage. All that greenery turns the too-narrow streets into secret passages, tunnels into the next adventure. They make you want to walk among them, to admire a natural architecture millions of years in the making. 

The trees in Central Park show signs of subtle cultivation, limbs hacked away to broaden the leafy rooftops, dead branches and crispy remnants of autumn leaves cleared to keep paths manageable. I wish every street fed into the park, or, on selfish days, only my own. 

Welcome, Spring.