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The first moment of spring comes in different ways to different people. For some, it is a square of moist, brown earth emerging from the melting slush of lingering March snows. For others, it is the crack of a bat and the sound of baseballs exploding in a corner lot, or the whiplash of a wet jump rope slapping against a cement sidewalk accompanied by the litany of: “Not last night but the night before/Twenty-four men came knocking at my door.”
For me as a child, it was the Green Box. It happened quickly, as quickly as the forsythia bush mysteriously transforming overnight to the color of butter. I’d be having breakfast, dreaming over the secret code on the top of the cereal box, trying desperately to decipher just what Captain Midnight was trying to tell me, when suddenly my name ricocheted off the clapboards of the house, “Sully, Sully.”
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“Good. Sull, you won’t tell anybody about the keys and the wine and the Green Box will ya?”
“Course not, Jug. That’s our secret. Between us. Shake.” And we shook hands on something that was ours and nobody else’s, and knowing that made me feel good.
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