Call it what you will -- mud season, shoulder season, no-good-new-movies-until-Memorial-Day season -- it's April in Alaska, a time of lengthening days, returning wildlife and pale exposed flesh. But the Great Land abounds in more subtle seasonal phenomena (e.g., deviled eggs reappearing at potlucks), too.
You know it's April in Alaska when …
Fred Meyer puts out the Fourth of July displays.
Skunk cabbage, dog turds and speed traps sprout up all over town.
Running suddenly seems strangely attractive, although not attractive enough to make you do it more than once or twice.
Everyone's walking around in flip-flops, even though the thermometer barely tops 50.
Your kids are outside spraying each other with the hose.
You question spreading gravel on your driveway this past winter now that you have to rake it from your lawn.
You find yourself sunbathing in public wearing nothing but a sports bra and athletic skort.
You find yourself wishing you were a woman so the cops didn't hassle you for sunbathing in public wearing nothing but a sports bra and athletic skort.
You're still nursing a wicked Iditarod hangover.
You wake each morning to the sound of your neighbor pressure-washing every square inch of his property.
Your garage resembles something you'd see on that TV show "Hoarders."
You break out the blackout curtains, by which I mean tin foil and duct tape.
You've grown so jaded about viewing the northern lights, you won't get out of bed unless "they're actually doing something."
You discover why it was a bad idea to leave your bicycle outside uncovered all winter.
Spring-cleaning reveals your wife was serious when she threatened to kick the jack-o'-lanterns off the porch if you didn't remove them by New Year's. And here you'd thought she'd caved in and thrown them out, herself.
The scale says you've gained 5 pounds of buy-two-get-one-free Cadbury Crème Eggs weight.
Your kids have resumed peeing off -- and, in some cases, on -- the deck.
You have also resumed peeing off -- and, in some cases, on -- the deck.
You step in bear scat taking out the garbage.
You've run out of excuses for not dealing with that pile of old tires and extra roofing shingles in your yard. Better throw a blue tarp over it. After all, you don't want it to be an eyesore.
You suddenly feel like maybe you should mow your lawn. Don't worry, the feeling will pass.
You start promising your daughter you'll construct the playhouse you promised to build last April … right after you put together the basketball hoop you promised yourself you'd put together the April before that.
You've been pricing manure, several different varieties.
A primal urge takes hold to swing a war club -- a softball bat will suffice.
You've rented (or are planning to rent in the very near future) at least one piece of gas-powered machinery.
The neighbor's kid is out there scraping gook off the sidewalk. Man, he's really working hard over there — you wonder if you can rent him, too.
You find yourself installing a new mailbox. Again.
Instead of feigning interest as someone you don't know but wind up standing next to at a bonfire drones on and on and on about backcountry skiing, you now feign interest as that same person drones on and on about early-season fishing.
You finally take down your Christmas lights.
You remove the ice skates from your trunk and hang them up for the season -- lake's looking a little soft for spring skating.
While you're at it, check under the seats for old, forgotten thermoses of hot cocoa. Discover them this summer and you'll never drink Swiss Miss again.
The T-shirt shops stir back to life.
You're happy when it rains so you can clean your house.
People are burning stuff.
You are also burning stuff.
You start oiling your guns for fishing season. After all, that halibut's not going to shoot itself in the face with a .44.
The kids now go to bed an hour and a half later and wake up an hour and a half earlier, thereby effectively limiting you and your spouse's child-free alone time to brushing your teeth and passing out while streaming old David Attenborough nature documentaries. Most effective birth control, ever.
Geoff Kirsch is a Juneau-based writer and humorist currently working on an essay collection based upon his long-running column in the Juneau Empire.