First sign of spring? It's Hubby digging out the camping gear

The weirdest thing happened last Friday. The sky turned blue and there were no clouds in it at all. Then, on Sunday, the outdoor thermometer rose above the little blue line that denotes the "Yes, it's too stinking cold to wear flip-flops to school" cut-off point.

"Mama, I don't want to go out..." my youngest wailed. "There's a big yellow thing in the sky and I'm scaaaaared ..."

He was kidding, of course, but he did seem to find it hard to walk the dog without fifteen pounds of Dacron, Gore-Tex and fleece wrapped around him.

I don't care what the calendar says, I don't care what the weather forecaster says (In fact, after February, I really, really, really don't care what the forecaster says), and I don't care what the Farmer's Almanac says.

It's spring.

How do I know?

I caught Terry in the shed Sunday afternoon, digging out the camping equipment.

There is no surer sign of spring than the day Pan and all the little woodland gods sneak in and possess my husband, filling his middle-aged head with childhood memories that conveniently omit things such as chiggers, late freezes and mattresses made out of rocks and pine cones.

In theory, I'm right there with him. I'm so sick of cold, wet weather that every shadow-spooked groundhog who crosses my path better run for cover.

The idea of heading off to our favorite campground and lounging in the heat by the pool, soaking up sun and listening to the katydids and tree peepers compete for concert time is just heavenly.

But it's also about three months away.

Terry always seems to forget that the end of winter doesn't always slide right into the beginning of a summer, and we still have that bipolar season of spring to get through. I remember one March when I got sunburned. I remember another March when a blizzard raged through Tennessee and dumped enough snow in my front yard to bury Ben, who was just a toddler at the time.

You know what they say about Tennessee weather, especially in the spring. If you don't like it, wait a few minutes. It'll change.

His enthusiasm wasn't exactly catching. When the first crocus pokes its head out of last year's oak leaves in our yard and timidly announces the possibility that it might, someday, consider being something like spring, my husband is like a squirrel on speed. He is a human rocket launcher, ready to get out, get out, get out and enjoy the new, young world!

Unfortunately, if he's a squirrel, I'm a bear. I'm more inclined to pull the covers back up, barricade the entrance to the cave, and beg for a few more weeks of sleep.

It takes more than a rocket launcher to get me excited about spring -- it takes an ICBM.

Inject Caffeine Before Moving.

Interfere Cautiously Before Motivating.

Ignite Crabby Bear Mama.

Take your pick.

On Sunday, when the day got just warm enough to get him fired up for forestry fun, but not nearly warm enough for the grouchy, sleepy bear, he decided to go out to the country for a walk in the woods. He asked me to go with him, but I knew he didn't really mean it. That first venture out is sacred, some kind of Iron John, Hemingway, machismo mysticism thing and the last thing I wanted to do was interfere. Besides, if he was out of the house, that meant I could take a nap without him channel surfing home improvement shows in the same room. (You don't need to take a guy to a doctor to see if there's been some hearing loss over the years -- you just need to see where he's set the volume level on the remote control. Listening to "Nahm" Abrams talk about "This Old House" can usually put me to sleep, but not at 105 decibels...)

When Terry came back, the excitement level was toned down just a bit -- hiking over the TVA hills can do that to you when you've spent the last three months sitting down and staring glumly out at the snow. But it was still there, like a banked campfire, just waiting to be fanned into life again.

He smelled like pine and fresh air and springtime when he kissed me and he looked like a kid who'd never heard of chiggers, late frosts or beds made of rocks and pinecones. it made me want to -- even now, I can't believe I'm saying this -- it made me want to go camping.

Okay, Terry's spring enthusiasm was catching after all, but being a bear instead of a squirrel, I'm a little slower to catch on.