Mutant

If you have ever cut open a papaya you know this is not what they look like inside. Normally they are packed with black ballbearing sized seeds. So many seeds that once you cut the fruit open (and it is impossible to cut any of the seeds in half) they rize above the level of the cut surface. Once you let them out you'll never get them back in.

Well, this little guy didn't have any seeds. Mutant or what?

Environmental Distrubance 201

They came early, before the morning heat penetrated the volcano dust, known as vog. Their machetes made quick work of the plants on the other side of the fence. My heart sank. Last week, I tore up the ti plants. This week the remaining foliage between my patio and the road fell. The two burly Hawaiians dressed in loose tank shirts cleared the beds for new plants. Small twigs of some kind, smaller than my palms replacing the scrub.

One old plant was huge and left a five foot void. Their work scattered bright green geckos along the white fence and fat bumbling wood bees hovered in search of new shelter. The mongoose trotted quickly across my patio looking confused in his dusty brown coat.

Nothing on the opposite side of my fence was spared. Well, my view of the ocean improved and I can’t say the road noise is that much louder, but my false sense of serenity has been torn up.

Home Ownership

It is a rewarding experience, or it can come with a price tag separate and above the purchase price. It comes with its highs and it can come with the lows. There is exhilaration in making home improvements, but routine upkeep and maintenance can be tedious and offers little satisfaction beyond a job well done, especially when a repair was a result of poor workmanship in the first place.

Don’t know whose error I repaired today, but it caused me to add another tool to my ever increasing box of tools. I am feeling like Felix the Cat.

Felix the Cat, the wonderful, wonderful cat
Whenever he gets in a fix, he reaches into his bag of tricks

Another trip to Home Depot to get a plumber’s wrench and a “thing-a-ma-jig” to repair the mount for the kitchen sprayer. It’s called a kitchen spray hose guide, and I know you know exactly what that is. The spray gun sits in the guide’s cradle and that is held in place with a plastic threaded stem and something you turn onto the stem, which is like a bolt, but also made out of plastic. My lack of plumbing lingo usually causes me to dismantle the stuff under the sink and take it to the hardware store. With stuff in hand I do a little show and tell. The guys then figure out what I need.

This morning I didn’t do that. Bruce dressed in his fade orange bib and slinging a tool belt that would leave most chiropractors drooling must have seen my puzzled look as I gleaned the display of plumbing supplies in aisle 34. He took me right to the spare parts rack two aisles over and showed me three options.

“You have a choice between white, silver or brushed nickel.” he said.

“Brushed nickel." I sighed knowing the end attached to the spray gun wasn’t going to make it through the guide. "I suppose I’ll need a plumber's wrench.”

“Yep, unless it is a shallow sink and the water connection is not that far up in there. Then any wrench will clear.”

“No, it’s a deep sink and it’s way up in there. About as far back and inaccessible as a whale’s molar.” I replied. Where the heck did that come from? Must be a spurt of creative writing. Bad creative, writing.

Bruce escorted me to where the plumbing tools hung. Only one to choose. $12.95. “Are you the plumber of the house?” he asked.

“Afraid so. I own one of these back home in Tennessee.” softly tapping the handle in the palm of my handing and feeling more like a beat cop than a "head of household, single, middle aged house frau." I tried to draw my Tennessee out while not chuckling about the fact Hawaii is my home. I stared at the tool. I own three power drills. Why not two plumber’s wrenches? Geez. I got to get a job.

I bought my first plumber's wrench when I remodeled the kitchen in one of my apartments. The head was impossible to pivot. Frustrated beyond reason, I marched back to Lowe’s and demanded the customer service person turn it on the right angle. Of course, he did so as easy as flicking a cap off a beer bottle at a University of Tennessee tailgate party. He handed it back to me with that "What's the problem?" look, the little shit. I almost cried on the way home.

Two aggravating things about home repairs – not having the vocabulary to speak semi-intelligently about the project and being weak. One I can work on, but am inclined not to bother. The other-hopelessly in need of Wheatie.

Returning home, I sighed again and then wedged my body underneath the kitchen sink. I fixed that which should never have needed fixing. Some bruiser turned the plastic stem so tight the neck broke off. The cheesy attempt to fix the problem with some sort of putty, left the sprayer dangling in the sink and putty oozing everywhere.

The simple job took about an hour, slowed down by the tight maneuvering required. Not so much under the sink, but up in the holes bored for the water hoses. I concluded a woman had to have installed the sink for no man on earth would have fingers that small to get up in those holes. It took some finagling to get the head of the wrench in position and my hand barely cleared the hole. I thought I'd never get the nut on the water line reattached and wondered what the price of a plumber would be when I finally got the thread started. Knicked a knuckle in the process.

Job done, I thanked the Lord for His help and smiled when the darn thing didn’t leak. Home ownership satisfaction.

By the way, I actual wrote something the other day. Murder scene.

You'll laugh so much your sides will ache
Your heart will go pitter pat
Watching Felix, the wonderful cat.

Thanks to Felix the Cat for comic of the day @ Felixthecat.com

Dead Dried Up Things

I’ve been told that the Kona side of the Big Island is the dry side, while Hilo and the east side of the island is the wet side. I prefer the dry.

When I replaced the light fixture in the bedroom with a ceiling fan, I found this little guy inside the old light, dry as a bone. Offered him a drink of water,along with a biscuit and some jam, but that was too little too late.

The little guy becomes the first of my Hawaiian collection of skulls, dead things and other interesting finds.

Famous Faces

I saw Valdimir Putin at Starbuck’s in Kailua-Kona this morning having a chat with Glenn Beck. Putin in his Izod and Beck in a T-shirt were as relaxed as two old buds tending to the bar-b-que steaks on Saturday afternoon while their wives prepared guacamole dip in the kitchen.

Both men casually watched the babes bounce up and down the three steps leading into the coffee shop entrance as they sipped hazelnut flavored lattes and discussed car insurance. I suppose big shots wrestle with the mundane just like the rest of us.

After taking a sip of his latte, Valdimir licked his top lip and commented, "For here in Kona, the coffee needs to be superior."

I wanted to tell him that when a cup of Joe is made to taste like someone crushed a cigarette butt in it, it will never taste any better. Glenn, packing the extra ten pounds TV adds, jonesed for a shot of booze.

Okay, writing at Starbuck’s isn’t going to work either, but at least I’ll find some interesting people hanging out on the deck.

Red Light. Green Light.

I’m a complaining sort of writer. Still searching for that feels just right spot for creative writing. After experiencing the distractions in Java Lava and absorbing bad vibes in the public library, I’ve opted for Borders.

My complaints don’t end. It was so cold between the tombs of books I found a small snow drift in the history section, apparently from last night’s fall not yet shoveled away by the staff. Without my parka, I couldn’t stay inside. The latte was warm as piss, unfortunately so, because the flavor delightful. I slung by computer pack over my shoulder and pushed through the glass door to the second floor patio, which sits nearly on top of the intersection of Highway 11 and Henry Street. Need I mention the traffic noise? My condo has the noise level of a monastery in comparison. It is remarkable that I can hear birds in the nearby telephone poles as vehicles gear up to climb the hill toward Wal Mart. There goes a load of rocks and a truck without a muffler followed by the town’s bright yellow HAZ-MAT truck. Rumble, rumble, rumble. In the distance sits a cruise ship on the still waters of the morning’s Pacific.

The metal mesh chairs are as uncomfortable as lava rock and have no ergonomic connection to the wobbly table.

Yes, complain, complain, complain. When will my desk get here?

Did I mention the fumes?

Warning Signs

And no swimming?



When I was in the Peace Corps in Micronesia a shower was called a bucket shower. When I saw this little kid I couldn’t help take a photo. It looked so much more fun than tossing a pail full of water over one’s head and calling it a shower.

Bed Blog

I talked to my brother, Mike, the other afternoon, the nine-in-the evening call from Dad. Mike and Jennifer were in Saratoga for the weekend.

“So what are you doing right now,” Mike asked. “I’m returning home from Home Depot.” I replied taking the turn onto Alii Drive.

Mike laughed, not expecting the answer. Had he envisioned me lounging pool side? Or perhaps strolling along the beach picking up sea shells? Maybe sitting at the cabana drinking a Mai Tai. Afterall, it was Saturday in paradise.

However, the island has to get built somehow. Condo and homeowners have chores to accomplish just like anywhere else. Lowes, Ace and Home Depot are here to capitalize. I didn’t tell him the rented truck carried a load of patio furniture (just a small two seat set and table) and thirteen palms were blowing in the wind tucked between seven bags of dirt. And oh yeah, lumber. For constructing the bed.

Poised against the bedroom wall is a king size head board. It towered over a queen size mattress which was perched on a full size box spring and frame. The upside down pyramid came with the condo, hidden behind a comforter the previous condo owners used to hide their yard sale finds. Then I inherited the mess upon purchase.

Sleeping on this make shift bed was hazardous if you slipped too close to the edge. If you tended to draw the covers up throughout the night your toes would stick out the end because the sheets couldn’t be tucked.

After looking at the cost of box springs and bed frames, I considered another option. I like the Japanese low platform design and felt confident I could make such a thing, but for one small detail. I don’t have tools on island.

Next door a contractor was in the middle of remodeling a condo. I approached him with the option of cutting my lumber off a cut list. Maybe forty cuts. He agreed, but wouldn’t be able to get to it until the next day. That would have been okay except I had a bed designer, Steve, willing to help. The opportunity to get a new bed for the price of lumber and have a help with assembly couldn’t be passed up. So I borrowed a table saw from Daniel (of Alicia and Daniel, and Alicia and Steve connections), bought a drill (the third one I own) and began to toil over the project.

A well done frame. Square too. Hauled the old box spring to the dumpster and put the frame in my lanai closet, for now. (Man, it is getting full)

Next project: headboard?

Another Day

Pu'uhonua O Honaunau

I visited Pu’uhonua O Honaunau, the place of refuge. I heard the natives were friendly until I got a little too chummy with two ki’i standing guard at the entrance.

Not So Free Public Libraries

After running around in the morning looking at more furniture – I need a decent bed –I stopped in at the library. It was noontime, I was starving and would have rather gone swimming.

At the desk I inquired about my card which of course disappeared into the depths of my storage unit years ago. At least I think that is where it is, but I couldn’t swear by it.

In order to get a card most libraries require some proof of residency. It is a tax thing. In Tarpon Springs, I presented a copy of my lease. Saratoga Springs' library was satisfied with a copy of a W2 form that had been forwarded from my Florida employer. Actually, I thought that was a stretch, but I reasoned if tax records had the Gansevoort address, then it was reasonable to assume I lived in the area. Or at least had some sort of attachment that required me to pay taxes, and thereby, support the Public Library.

In Hawaii, I thought they’d look in the system for my record since I was here three years ago. At worst, I'd pay the ten dollar fee for a misplacement card. Nope. Residency card, or Hawaii driver’s license or a local bank statement required. Hum. If the staff at the Kona library was employed as border security, the nation wouldn’t have an illegal alien problem. At least, we can sleep better at night knowing there aren't any illegals checking out books in the Aloha State.

Needless to say I don’t like the atmosphere in the Kona library. It is one of those “Shhh” places, unless you are staff then you can talk as loud as you like. No cell phones, food or drink. (In Saratoga, all were allowed. The place even had a cafe.) The kiosks don't have electrical outlets, so I can't plug in my computer. Kind of dusty smelling too. But the kick in the ass was not being able to get on the Wifi.

Next stop - Borders.

It's Monday

Day break brought a flood of sunlight through a little tiny crack in the clouds above the shoulder of the mountain. It fell onto the trees and foggy shadows tumbled down the slope. I wondered if the crew in the traditional outrigger saw the same beauty or did their rhythmic paddling capture their focus.

For the past three days since arriving I have fought a migraine that wouldn’t circum to medication. With only two more pills left, I worried if I could get the prescription refilled, but woke this morning pain free. Slept halfway descent too, only waking three times, verses the normal dozen or so.

The plan was to begin writing this morning after my run. My desk won't be in for another couple of weeks so,I called the library to check on the hours. Closed on Monday and most other days they don’t open until 11 AM. Close 5 PM. So I found a corner seat in Lava Java with a receptacle. This was the first attempt at writing in chaos. I prefer quiet solitude. Here sound hummed all around me. “Keep the change”, the rattle of dishes, conversations between customers and staff, a jazzy-blue music and the hum of a cooler containing Fuze. And the tiny corner filled with other computer users who came to suck down free Wifi. It became a little too crowded.

But the lattes are hot. I’ll just see what happens.

San Francisco Morning

A cool stillness filled the yellow hue over the scrub mountain, a natural horizon almost lost behind the hard landscape of buildings, overpasses, billboards and power lines.

“What's that smell?” She asked her traveling partner. They lead their wheeled luggage across the parking lot.

“The industrial district south of the airport.” He replied while checkng his blackberry for early morning email.

I inhaled, slow and shallow, to avoid the smoke enveloping two Japanese business men standing curbside. The airport shuttle was due any minute.

My long day ended at the Best Western, second floor, end of the hall, room 229. The Bay Area night air seeped through the window that refused to close tightly. The environment control unit pulled double duty as air conditioner and heater. I kicked it alive and cranked it to 76. Then drew a hot bath. From Chicago to LA I sat near the bulkhead door and felt every minus 57 degrees radiate through the metal hatch. Near the end of the trip I pulled on my feet into my seat to warm them as I watched ice bears go to battle in the Golden Compass. I love Sam Elliot, but please, what was that movie all about?

In the week that American Airlines left thousands of customers stranded swearing never again to fly the airline as I had done in 1976 when I was left stranded in Chicago (yes, for thirty two years I have avoided American as much as possible), and despite the bump in Albany, United did a fine job getting me across the country. Okay I got a free ticket, two meal vouchers, and the cutest little toilet article kit that ever breezed through airport security. Last night upon arriving at the customer service counter, the agent made the hotel arrangements and checked on the whereabouts of my bags. They were in Kona and should be waiting for me when I arrive at 11:30 AM.

Knowing the hell my fellow travelers faced this week due to failed inspections of some wiring harness I figured my delay was harmless. It was best to go about my travel experiences with that attitude. Was there any other option?

There were a few hurdles to overcome. When the pilots didn’t show up for an hour and a half in LA, the plane sat with no air conditioning at the gate. Despite the icicles hanging off my pant legs from the previous flight, I too debarked with the rest of the passengers to wait on the pilots in the terminal.

In Chicago, United also managed to get the plane off with just a ten minute delay by basically saying, “Screw it. We don’t need the toilets in the middle of the plane. We’ll fly with just the two – first class and the one in the rear.” It was that or cancel the flight the captain informed us. He thought the passengers would appreciate his decision. Oh yeah. The crew made bad jokes about American all the way across the country.



I rag on Newark’s airport with reason. In the San Francisco airport this morning waiting for the flight to Kona, it just feels better. Maybe it is the sunshine.

The plane to Kona was overbooked and they went looking for volunteers. I thought about it, but I wouldn't get to Kona until eight this evening. Decided it was time to get someplace warmer. Besides, if I hung around the airport all day, I’d have to work on my sister’s website.

Chicago

As dreay as Newark, except for the underground passage from the main terminal to Concourse C where disco lights are looking awfully dated.

Robin called last night and wished me God’s speed. She commented about my frustrations in climbing the mountain, failing to write. Said it was okay because I was doing something more important. Being with dad. That made me feel good.

Told her the rabbit is out from beneath the snow banks. Looking as cute as ever.

Next stop LA...

Premonitions

What can you do about them? We tend to ignore them, dismissing the gut feeling as mild paranoia, silliness, superstitions or some story your mother told you when you were a little kid – not swimming after you eat, or drinking eight glasses of water a day.

I had weird feelings about this trip to Hawaii. I wasn’t excited about it. Why would I be? I didn’t have some exotic vacation planned, nor did I have something to do, besides buy a bed. I was going home. We all do that. But with three airlines biting the dust last week and American canceling flights quicker than gamblers discard losing para-mutual tickets after the last horse trots across the finish line, I expected the trip to be one big head ache.

I became suspicious when last week I checked my seat assignment and discovered I didn’t have one. Since I was flying United not the cattle car Southwest, this was strange. More suspicion rose when I checked in and was told the assignment would be made at the gate.

In Albany 99% of the time the security check runs smoothly and takes ten minutes, tops. This morning the line wove through the upstairs staging area, down the walkway to the parking garage, cued up at the foot of the escalators held in place by a TSA agent sipping a cup of coffee, then snaked behind the stairway and strung out down the hallway toward baggage claim. Fortunately, I am the kind of flyer who prefers to sit in the waiting area for two hours instead of fretting in security for twenty minutes. There was plenty of time and surprisingly, it didn’t take long when I uncharacteristically engaged in conversation with a young Nebraskan woman who had been at Albany Med yesterday interviewing for medical school. $44,000 per year.

At the gate the agent called passengers names for seat assignments. Not mine. Boarding started. Hum? I slid up to the agent in the pin striped uniform. “I don’t have a boarding seat assignment.” Politely he asked me to wait while he made an announcement. Looking for one volunteer. Holy crap.

I gave volunteering consideration. Traveling alone. No one expecting me on the far side. No hassles. Just call Expedia and change my car reservation. I told the agent I’d consider the free round trip ticket to any continental destination. When he asked me where I was going he cringed. Apparently, it is not so easy to fly to Hawaii.

I’d soon found out. With no volunteers coming forward, and because I was the last to check in….I was not….I got involuntarily bumped. Beginning with the first flight I ever took the day I enlisted in the Army and flew from Albany to Philadelphia (and decided I didn’t care too much for it.) I’ve never been involuntarily bumped.

So I’m waiting in Albany, waiting the next United flight to Chicago to LA to San Fran. There I will get a hotel, compliments of the airline, spend the night and fly to Hawaii in the morning. Yes, I got the free ticket too. Happily, I’m not on American.

Of course, the bags managed to get on the flight. I watched my Tibetan and Navajo rugs take off without me. Hoping I see them in Kona tomorrow when I arrive.

The next weird feeling I have is my sister reading this and thinking I should be working on her website. I'm not in Chicago yet.

Honor Prisoners of War

On April 9, 1942 70,000 American and Filipino troops surrendered to the Japanese on the peninsula of Bataan, in the Philippines. It was the largest surrender in the history of the US Army. What happened next was the Batann Death March, a sixty mile walk through the steamy hot jungles of the Western Pacific without food or water. Six days. When the march ended no one will know how many died. Maybe as many as 11,000. They were prisoners with the US war efforts turned to Europe.

There are those who paid the ultimate price for our freedom. Then there are those who gave up their freedom, at the total mercy of the enemy's humanity and compassion for weeks, months and years.

Today was Former Prisoner of War Day. Did you know? I didn’t.

Riter Bloqu

There is only so much to do before there isn’t any more to do. That happened at 9:58 am. Quit fooling around, it is time to write.

I stood on the side of a mountain and squinted toward the invisible summit, somewhere lost behind the next rise, lost beneath the clouds. Too exhausted to cuss. It's what I do at high altitude. Frustrated, unmotivated, out of energy and cold I crumpled into the snow drift, defeated. Ice crystals caked my left side which had taken the brunt of the wind hollowing in from the unseen Pacific Ocean, miles away but no less influential. Luis, the guide, handed me a bit of chocolate. I reluctantly crammed it into my mouth and slowly chewed. It tasted like a piece of tire. I washed it down with a lukewarm energy drink and tried to muster strength from some place deep inside. How was I to go on?
It is strange where motivation comes from. Management books say it is all internal, but the external forces that push the psyche are as different as snowflakes. I didn’t want to move any further. That fact pissed me off.

I had been placed on the lead team with members who had proved during the previous two weeks to be strong hikers. My preparation included carrying a fifty pound pack up a mile trail four times a week. Was I now to face the embarrassment of returning to camp without bagging the summit simply because I wasn’t able?

“What a wimp,” I thought. “Letting my team down.” My team members were all young jocks who politely turned their backs when they took a whiz and when I needed to wiggle free from the harness to do the same. God knows I would not want them to see me cry. Just like a woman.

Oddly, I wasn’t motivated to by survival. If I had not been on rope with four mountaineers I would have froze to death for not wanting to take another step. I didn’t live that day because I wanted to live, but because I was tied to four other people.

Luis’ radio crackled. The following team had a member who wanted to descend. If we were close to bagging the summit, get it done and then rendezvous with the team and take their member back to camp. Someone worse than me?

I was at a low point in the climb to 19372 feet on Cotopaxi, but when I heard another needed help I pulled myself together and trudged to the summit. With every step I repeated my mantra, “I have an angel pulling me to the top.” (Named Luis, who later climbed Everest as part of the expedition with Erik Weihenmayer, the blind guy.)

I saw absolutely nothing but a stick stuck in the middle of a cloud at the summit. (Later I would see a National Geographic photo of the summit, a deep caldera with breathtaking views and again I swore like that sailor.)

A few photos and a three hour descent over the same terrain that took nine hours to climb.

I think I’m sitting on the side of a mountain right now, when it comes to writing.

Champions Again

CandAce Parker iced Candice Wiggins and Standford. Tennessee dominated on defense, proved they were not the one dimensional team as claimed by critics and the Lady Vols took home their eighth National Championship Title.

Yes, I posted this before the game was over.

Geese

While I waited for the library to open a young woman commented, “It’s been a long time since the sun felt this warm in the morning.” I had noticed the same phenomenon. The top my sneakers absorbed the solar heat and the warmth was oozed over my toes. Looking up and down the street there wasn’t a snow bank in sight. Could it really be here?

Yards are a mess this time of year. Littered with twigs and branches the grass is flat, matted against the earth like locks of hair after a hard night’s sleep. Mole burrows zigzag the landscape leaving the turf as chewed up as Lambeau Field the day after Thanksgiving. Dad planned to pick up some of the debris, but I had my sight set on a hike around Moreau. He dropped the rake, grabbed a Snicker bar, because he never hikes without a snack, and we headed to the lake.
Like yesterday’s dirty laundry remnants of heavy snow storms were scattered about the woods on the north side of the hemlocks, in little ravines and strangely on the paved roads that wander through the vacant campsites with picnic tables propped against the trees. This keeps the snow from accumulating on the table tops, saturating the wood, warping the surface and ultimately spilling the beans which ruins the camper’s picnic. My theory about the snow on the roads is that the earth – the rich damp soil and packed leaves is warmer than tar and asphalt, which speaks against man-made global warming and offers a solution to the dilemma - pave over the northern climes - but I’m not going there.

As we approached the bridge the sound of migrating geese filled the sky. (No, they weren’t speaking Spanish.) Five large formations appeared over the hill coming in low over the frozen lake. One lead goose zeroed in on the open water of the shallow feeder pond. Dad and I walked the narrow isthmus between the two bodies of water and watched the geese circle for a landing. The insistent honking intensified as the formations grew tighter over the small pond. And then they plunged into the water. Where is my digital SLR with the telephoto lens? Oh yeah, I don’t own one. Settling on their icy cold tarmac their engines quieted to an occasional resonant sound.

Since they were on the far side of the pond I could not determine what they were doing, but there was a lot of splashing. The activity reminded me of the whales off Maui, puffs of water shooting skyward, wings and white asses floating above the dark water replaced pectoral fins and tails.

I’m suppose to be writing a book and it is not going very well. Trying too hard I think. But I am beginning to believe I am suppose to be writing something else.

The Shadows

Photo Log

Consumed

I have been consumed by the weather. Look at the recent blogs.

I have resolved to forget about the weather. This is easier to do when the sun is shining, so a good day to make this resolution.

I’m beginning to think spring is a better time to make changes in routine, lifestyle, behavior, relationships and all those other things we tend to “correct” or to get around to projects on New Years Day, only to be abandoned a few days later, because it is the middle of winter, and it is a depressing thought to guess what day the river's ice flows begins to move.

So with a week left on the mainland before hopping a plane to Hawaii, I quit weather. This is difficult because I fear that weather might kill me. I don’t want weather to kill me. It is a good reason not to go to the summit of Mt Everest or trudge through Death Valley in July, or hang out on Mt Washington anytime of the year, or live in New Orleans, but honestly weather hasn’t deterred me. My sister once told me there wasn’t any such thing as bad weather, just bad gear. I add bad preparation.

I met a woman yesterday who had no desire to travel. I could not comprehend this lack of exploration or adventure. To be so fulfilled, satisfied and consumed with life, that it squelched the need to poke your nose in another place, time or culture. I can’t comprehend not knowing what it sounds like to stand on a mountain above clouds filled with lightening, or sit in the middle of the ocean and witness the stars fall to the horizon, or smell the rich decay of earth deep in a jungle or see a tiger’s eyes reflect off the surface of a quiet stream where it paused for a drink of water.

Not enough money or time to match the desire.

I have no idea where I was going with this one. Freaked out about the weather, I guess.

Almost 60

No, not me, the temperature. Despite this and the fact that it is April 1, this is what spring looks like in Upstate New York...

Spring?