There’s a day early each Spring where you sense you’re on the far side of winter and you feel a surge of optimism. The first color appears in the trees, the sun comes out and the parks in New York are suddenly full. Sometimes I have the curious urge, no doubt a remnant of childhood, to eat ice cream. When we were in college there was a place called Dairy Joy that opened in early April, and we loved to go there opening day even if the Maine weather didn’t cooperate. The preferred order was a chocolate milkshake that somebody poured bourbon into—good grief. Now I admit enjoying the season debut of Mr. Softee on the streets of Manhattan. I plot my first cone (vanilla dipped in chocolate) and try to avoid ending up in line behind a row of school kids. Then I eat it before running into anybody I know. Men eating ice cream in public is not traditionally a celebrated look.

You might get carried away and break out of a pair of white bucks or a pastel-hued shirt that’s been hibernating all winter. And it’s understandable on the first warm day to dress like it’s the height of summer. But then the cold returns and you have to beat a sartorial retreat and revert to tweeds or flannels which now, after your brief time in the sun, seem heavy and even a bit dreary.

This is a time to remember previous Springs. That’s why people have a sentimental place for the baseball opener or the first day of fishing season. Yes, the weather may be miserable—nobody’s going to catch a fish in the high, off-colored water—but that’s not the point. You’re celebrating the start of something and really, the continuation of something—all the openers you remember from previous years back to when you were young.

This feeling is real. In Japan they’re rightfully getting fired up for cherry blossom season. I didn’t realize how regimented this was until I spent more time there. Offices send out junior workers at lunch to claim a good spot in the most scenic parks. They lay down a blanket and set up the portable karaoke machine and wait for the end of the work day. Then their colleagues arrive with beer and sake and it’s time to party, baby. There’s hardly any room between the groups—you can barely navigate around the people and the singing—but nobody seems to mind.

I love how Spring takes its time to arrive. In our apartment, we watch the trees in the small park outside come into bloom. When I start driving up to the Catskills I’m reassured that those trees in the hills become greener and greener each week. I pay more attention to these things as I get older. It’s probably natural that our relationship with time changes as we age, we’re more sensitive to the arrival of things we love and also more wistful because we know they’ll fade.

One reason I love the Masters, which takes place this week, is that it signifies the arrival of Spring. A few years ago the Masters was held in November, because of the pandemic, and it didn’t quite feel the same. We don’t want to watch golf during the Fall, we want to wear corduroys and get ready for the Vikings to unravel. I’ve written about my Masters obsession before—I don’t need to go into it here. There are some downsides: allergies, a dawning realization your baseball team isn’t so great and endless photos of ramps on Instagram.

But I do look forward to some of my favorite things which belong at this time of year: heading back to the trout streams, longer days, the return of the birds, bottles of Riesling, a sense of anticipation. It’s a time to imagine the coming months in their Platonic ideal. The leisure and the warmth—but in our mind they remain without the traffic, humidity and airport chaos. But that’s all right. Everything arrives in time. Until then, dreaming remains a wonderful part of the sweet season.