Spitball Army

Spring, spring!  Like a mad magician flinging silks and colored rags from his trunk the earth produced the yellow and white crocus, then the fox grape, the forsythia flowering on its stalks, the blades of iris, the apple tree blossoms of pink and white and green, the heavy lilac and the daffodil.  Grandfather stood in the yard and gave a standing ovation.  A breeze came up and blew from the maples a shower of spermatozoic soft-headed green buds.  They caught in his sparse gray hair.  He shook his head with delight, feeling a wreath had been bestowed.  A joyful spasm took hold of him and he stuck his leg out in an old man’s jig, lost his balance, and slid on the heel of his shoe into a sitting position.  In this manner he cracked his pelvis and entered a period of declining health from which he would not recover.  But the spring was joyful and even in pain he wore a smile.  Everywhere the sap rose and the birds sang.

– E. L. Doctorow,  Ragtime