Cherry pink and pear blossom white
by Jon Worley

It's been a strange year. For all of January and most of February, autumn had given winter a miss, leaving the land brown and wet. In late February, spring showed up, almost a month early. Then winter finally arrived, chilling the first four weeks of March. Since last Thursday, however, highs have been in the 80s and the traditional harbinger trees are in full bloom.

Earlier this century, a Japanese ambassador thought Washington D.C. was lacking in splendor. So he arranged for a few hundred trees to make their way to our nation's capital, where they grace the Tidal Basin and nearby areas. The arrival of the cherry blossoms each spring is anxiously awaited and inevitably over-analyzed by everyone from news anchors and senators to basketball players and garbage men.

This year's bloom has been characterized as average to good in most reviews, although the odd old coot has disparaged the new crop. "I remember back in 1955..." or somesuch. No matter. For one blissful weekend a year, everyone in D.C. (and environs) forgets about crime, poverty, and even politics to bask in the pinkish-white glory that envelops the Tidal Basin.

This concept of flowering, but not fruiting, trees rubbed off on a few folks who wanted to revitalize the downtown of the first capital of the U.S., my current home of York, Pa. Cherry blossoms had been done, of course, so the powers that were scored a few hundred pear blossom trees and planted them along Market and Philadelphia streets downtown.

And while the cherry blossoms will have largely disappeared when next weekend rolls around, pear blossoms can last upward of a month. They eventually give way to thick, green leaves, providing some needed shade in the summertime. A lot of "planning" in York County has remnants of dingleberries rubbed into the scalp, but the pear blossoms were a good idea. The Miss Pear Blossom Pageant, on the other hand...

But who cares about that anyway? In the spirit of spring fun, Barbara and I wandered down to the current capital this morning, taking in the national zoo and the blossoms. The Metro had a nice, sweaty ripe scent, a precursor of the summer months ahead.

The zoo was packed, mostly with strollers. Kids in strollers. Strapped in. Locked in. Incarcerated, really. Like any adult, these kids wanted to revel in the spring sunshine, wander about a bit and do some nice frolicking. I'm a big fan of frolic, myself. But these poor kids (some of them appeared to be three or four years old) were locked into these bizarre contraptions, where they had to sit, sweat and get heat rash. Not fun.

One kid, who looked to be about two, managed, through a feat of isometric muscle contraction that would astonish even Tony Little, to flip his stroller on top of himself. I saw this happen, and I still don't believe it. The kid hopped about, struggling with his seat and shoulder harness, and then with a mighty pelvic thrust managed to tip the thing sideways. Amazingly, he wasn't hurt, though his parents were screaming at him for some time. They just didn't appreciate the artistry of the moment, I guess. If that were my kid, I'd get him in gymnastics right away. This here's a boy the girls are gonna love.

But apart from the horrors of strollers (have you ever tried to cross a street when more than 100 parents with strollers have waded into the intersection? A perfect ad for the Snugli, if you ask me), the day went well, and was consummated properly at a fine dining establishment in Chinatown. I myself had the Mongolian pork (spicy) with garlic sauce. And for some strange reason, I decided this was the night I would learn how to use chopsticks.

I succeeded, but not before making a mess of myself and the floor beneath our table. Oh well. That's really another story for another time.

Something about fruitless blossoms get to me every time. Pointless ornamentation that somehow manages to inject a spot of joy into my heart. Okay by me.

Jon Worley approves Perez Prado for recreational use only. Chronic abuse can result in death to the soul.

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