Indiana spring

Wlady Pleszczynski of The American Spectator spent his first 20-some years in California, so he knew nothing about "the languid charms of humid summers or the heavenly silence of snowy nights. Or springs that come alive when they're supposed to, and not after the first rainfall, which might be in November." He spent the next dozen years in Indiana, and he remembers what he liked most about spring here, the redbud:

Most of the year it's a small nondescript tree, a pawn among oak and maple kings and queens. If you notice it at all, you might mistake it for a fruit tree that's been barren for many generations. Not that we'll remember, but spring reminds us that all is not what it appears. By April the redbud comes alive, its thin branches all in purply pink bloom. I can't remember a lovelier color to stare at, and in Bloomington (where we lived) it showed itself everywhere, for two solid weeks. Then it was gone, replaced by drab leaves, and soon you'd forget which trees had been the redbud.

He also remembers what he felt like when leaving Indianapolis for the Washington area when the magazine moved its operations:

  I also knew I wouldn't miss Indianapolis. In fact today I might not recognize it. Back then it desperately wanted to be a major league city. When I saw it 10 years ago it had already significantly changed, but in that shopping center kind of way that featured new Borders bookstores and upscale department outlets and an expanded airport that was no longer as quaint as its being named for Weir Cook had once suggested.

"That shopping center kind of way" is the perfect description for a city that thinks of growth only in terms of commerce that brings in the visitors, isn't it? Stop and smell the redwoods.