The season of spring – God bless it – wears many faces. It has inspired poets to greatness, encouraged the downhearted, confounded meteorologists and induced weeping by throngs of spouses who don’t care for yard work. I am one of those, ashamed that I’m far south of my wife’s expectations, rarely carrying “my part of the mulch.” Spring can enter quietly, like Carl Sandburg’s description of fog tippy-toeing on “little cat feet,” or comparable to Mother Nature’s “ruffled rage” upon discovery that “it’s not real butter.” Whenever it shows up – in whatever manner – most of us aren’t ready. Some applaud ...