Ah, spring. That magical time when a young man’s fancy turns to hula hoops. And Slinky, and those little canisters that make barnyard noises when you flip them over.

At least that’s what my fancy turns to. Your fancy may vary.

On Thursday, April 3, I pulled my motorcycle helmet onto my head only to be treated to a high, wild buzzing just over my right ear. For a mad second, I thought it was proof that the government had implanted a microchip in my brain while I slept, but no. T’was a bee, a scrawny, winged thing still drunk with the cold, shaking its various bee parts in an attempt to free itself from my Prell-smelling hair.

I didn’t scream or dance around like a 5-year-old girl with a frog down her shirt. I didn’t cuss or cry or hurl my helmet across the lot in horror. I reacted only with a calm sort of love, because a bee in the helmet is a sure sign of spring and if it takes a stinger to the ear to announce its presence, by golly, I’ll take it.

The temperature had not yet hit 50. Snowbanks were still ranking up the city like the filthy bones of long-dead beasts. Snow shovels still leaned in basements like hungry men waiting for work. And yet here I was declaring it spring (it doesn’t become official until I declare it) because enough of the signs had appeared to make it so. Ice cream trucks have hit the ground on bald tires, their cheap speakers playing “Pop Goes the Weasel” over and over until the fillings start vibrating in your jaw.

Stuff that got buried during the first storm of winter is suddenly revealed as the snow recedes. My favorite find so far: a cracked red keg cup with a lacy bra stuffed inside. It doesn’t fit, but I figure if I get my butt to Zumba, I’ll be in better shape for beach season.

Folks who got tattoos for Christmas can finally show them off. You see them on street corners, shivering in T-shirts with the sleeves rolled to the shoulders to reveal … whatever that is. A snake with a golf club in its mouth? A fish with dollar signs for eyes? Winnie the Pooh being eaten by Rihanna? Whatever. Show ’em off, people, it’s spring.

We won’t see the tramp stamps for a few weeks yet.

Everybody seems to be fishing. I gave it a try myself, but it sounded like this. Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiing, THUD! My worm has been sitting out there on the ice for three hours now, but not a single fish has crawled up out of the lake to bite on it.

But enough about me. I went trolling the populace for Sure Signs of Spring and here’s what I got.

Devon Rose Atwood: “Construction in I-95, saw that before my first robin!”

Deb Heroux: “Streakers running through Kennedy Park?”

Shealie Metayer: “The shirtless men that I’ve already seen on the streets of The Dirty Lew.”

Diane Fuller: “The motorcycle I heard going down the street this weekend. The sound will annoy me by mid-summer but now it sounds like robin song.”

Dana French: “The ‘SWEET’ pink sweatpants have returned to Walmart.”

John Snyder: “Women shaving their legs.”

Roger Castonguay: “Seeing your bike in your driveway.”

Mark LaFlamme: “Downtown gunfire.”

Charles Spencer: “Women in short shorts and halter tops.”

Rayne Poussard: “Huge potholes and soft shoulders!”

Lucille Lambert Eaton-LaRoche: “The sound of your screen door.”

Marie Hanson: “Dog-poop-covered lawns!”

John Alexander Pape: “Fought off a dozen hornets in an attic today.”

Terri Blasi: “Kids riding bicycles around the block and the ice cream truck.”

Kathleen Timmermeyer: “Flies.”

Abby E. White-Owl: “Saw your Magic Man near Simones’ Hot Dog Stand this morning. Is that a sign of spring?”

Indeed it is, Abby. When spring arrives, our Magic Man returns to Lewiston-Auburn like the majestic Monarch butterfly returning from equatorial climes with bags of bottles and cans in tow.

The Magic Man is hauling the bottles and cans, not the butterflies. That would just be weird.

Over the long winter, The Magic One was reportedly spotted in Portland, Boston, New York and parts of the world that may not even exist. But now spring is here and our favorite enigma is back where he belongs. He might even be wearing shorts.

Whatever. It’s here. Whether it’s fossilized clumps of dog waste or bees in your helmet, all signs point to the death of wretched winter and the birth of better times. Show off your tats. Play with discarded lingerie found on the street. Buy a cone for a stranger or run a Slinky down the stairs.

It really is a wonderful toy. It’s fun for a girl or a boy.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. He’ll never rank the scene with his fear of ice cream trucks and bumblebees. Email him at laflamme@sunjournal.com.

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