Welcome to the Season of "The First"

By Barbara Ascher

Whatever it is, it's happening again. Nature's thrust and pull against gravity.

The daffodils droop. They've had their moment in the sun only to be overshadowed by second wives, lilacs and lilies. Once again, redbud sets about its absurd mission of being a bawdy beauty in spite of a misnomer (the buds are purple) and stubbornly rebellious ways. Why bother blooming from stems when it can shoot its blossoms directly from the branch?

Head seaward and you'll spy white-frocked beach plum bushes dancing on the dunes. Drive the stretch of Route 27 when it leaves the Getty and aims for Ocean Avenue and you'll sense something akin to yearning as tree branches above your head reach for one another across the highway. You can almost hear the sighs.

The copper beeches rising against time on the front lawn of the White House across from East Hampton's brood of swans; the dogwood dotting thickets, the pace at Village Hardware where demands for mowers and weed killers all attest to this insistence. Nature's on the prowl.

To watch the quickened stride, the ready smile, the enthusiastic greeting is to be reminded that we too, are part of nature, responding to something beyond our comprehension and control. Call it spring, call it the beginning of The Season, or face the fact that this time of year is always a mystery and always a wonder.

To witness the similarities between ourselves and the "natural" world which we mistake as something "other" you need only go for ribs and beer at Turtle Crossing and watch owner Nancy Singer flit from table to table, periodically perching first here, then there to be reminded of a pollinating hummingbird. Watch Michael Nolan care for his evening Fresno diners and you'll see a mother duck keeping track of a new, large, not yet unruly brood.

Out in Amagansett, children sprawl on the grass, as their parents wait for tables at the Clam Bar and their first taste of lobster roll. At this time of year, everything seems like the "first." Spring could be renamed "First" for all our jubilant reports of spying "the first oriole!" And tasting "the first Halsey asparagus!" Like all first times, we won't forget it. Until next season when it will again seem like "the first."

It's a kind of rejuvenating virginity. It should be bottled and marketed.

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