I do not complain at Spring’s approach. After four long months of puffy, ill-fitting jackets, freezing wind, and gray midwestern skies, the return of natural color is a relief. Outside my window, I look upon blooming plants, budding trees, and twittering birds, all the conventional signs of Spring that make it a poetic, fantastical wonderland. Though many delight at this gay renaissance, I respond to her coming with more reserve, for she brings darkness as well as light. Much as the armies of old awaited Spring to water the soil with the blood of their enemies, so too does Spring redouble nature’s assault on our homes and our very bodies.
As the deer begin to cavort through the fields and the rabbits romp in the thicket, another, more sinister creature stirs in the depths of our home. I consequently spend each night in the corner of the kitchen, curled around my Maglite and a Daisy Red Ryder air rifle, straining to listen for the telltale squeaks and scratches of our resident mice. Although I have not yet seen them this season, there is no domicile in the Midwest that does not host a warren of mice, who emerge at night like so many mammalian locusts. Were they only after food, I would not begrudge them their nighttime explorations and might even leave out a conciliatory tray with cookies or milk (or whatever it is that one gives mice). But alas, their secondary objective is to leave a trail of droppings throughout the house like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs to find their way home. Our kitchen is no Cretan labyrinth, and yet our mice, like Theseus, unspool their wicked fecal thread as they stalk the Chex Mix that is their minotaur.
Indeed, the kitchen in Spring resembles a yawning gap in a defensive perimeter. It is the Ardennes forest to our Maginot line, where the enemy directs her forces with uncommon zeal. Every surface: vertical, horizontal, or upside-down is likely to, at some point or other, host an ant colony. Spring’s rebirth is thus a double-edged sword. During the barren months of winter, I can leave a Christmas feast on the counter to decompose with nary an appearance of another creature. Come mid-March, however, the smallest crumb left on the counter will draw an army of Formicidae that will take not only any scrap of food, but also the counter itself, along with any household pet under thirty pounds. The term “Spring cleaning” itself originated in a German children’s fairytale about a child who forgets their porridge dish on the counter and comes home to find their house devoid of food, belongings, and even their parents, the ants having carried them all away and eaten them. Here the revival of life reminds us less of Lazarus and more of “The Mummy,” which comes alive to suck its victims dry.
“But,” you may protest, “surely the surrender of our kitchens to nature’s wrath is a small price to pay for Winter’s end. “Ah,” I counter wisely (for you are a straw man and cannot respond), “but we risk far more than our countertops when Spring approaches.” For Spring’s warming weather bears another menace that we have avoided here in Michigan for many months. Every time I dress to go outside, I am now in danger of getting too hot. In February, I can safely wear my winter parka in the living room for several hours and never fear that I’ll even break a sweat. In April, however, every day is a new challenge. Instead of “wear everything you own and resign yourself to still feeling cold,” I now have to compare temperature predictions and radar displays, calculate humidity and precipitation, and factor in wind chill and sunshine before I decide how to dress every morning. Will I get caught in a cold breeze without my hat on? Or will my scarf overburden me with heat stroke and leave me prostrate in an unfamiliar forest where wild bears, famished after months of hibernation, gleefully devour my still-protesting carcass?
So, celebrate the buds and blooms if you wish. Cherish the prancing forest creatures. But do not expect me to join in your merriment, for all I see when I look out the window is the return of our perpetual war with the natural world.