In Springtime Our Fancy Turns to . . .

* Lynell George

As a native Angeleno, my relationship to appreciable--let alone drastic--seasonal change while growing up was largely through construction paper. Seasonal classroom fights broke out over the oranges and browns to create autumn leaves, the blues and whites to approximate winter snows and ice, the pastels to create spring flowers.

On a more tangible, practical level, Los Angeles has two seasons--Pacific Standard Time and Pacific Daylight Time. That extra light meant that as a child you could weasel your way into staying up longer. As an adult, I find, it means, well, you stay alert longer.

Spring means there are fewer excuses for staying in bed, because it’s no longer too dark or too cold at 6 a.m. for a run amid Griffith Park’s flora and fauna. Spring means Vin Scully’s “high and outside” haiku when the car radio’s in scan mode. Spring means restaurant hostesses cooing: “Oh, sorry, we can’t promise the patio this evening.” Spring means the first backyard barbecues even though there’s still a little chill in the evenings.

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Bill Plaschke

The sound of “Music of the Night” on an organ, momentarily taking you to a different place. The feel of a plastic chair lightly sticking to the backs of your thighs, thankfully bringing you back.

The smell of mustard, two rows down, three seats over, unsightly in your refrigerator, like art on a hot dog. The touch of a small hand in yours, an oversized baseball glove in her other hand, so sure she will catch one this time, you utter a foolish prayer she is right.

The sight of a baseball being thrown from a mound at Dodger Stadium, shadowy mountains behind it, gleaming straw hats in front of it, Vin Scully watching over it, time stops, the afternoon flies, eternal baseball.

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* Patt Morrison

April is the coolest month, bringing fine balance between the pummeling January rains and July’s slashing heat.

Do your taxes at the last minute, sitting out on a deck with a pitcher of Bellinis, gazing at hills or trees that are for now as green as pool table felt.

Gorge on asparagus two meals a day (three with an omelet).

Nag friends to neuter and spay pets so unwanted litters won’t litter next spring’s landscape.

Have English tea at the Huntington Botanical Gardens or Japanese tea at Descanso Gardens.

Convince yourself that, from a distance, the smell of skunk is no less pleasant than that of Lemon Pledge.

Stroll an avenue of blooming jacaranda trees, the blossoms a purple haze around and underfoot.

Feel smug and superior as you restock your earthquake supplies.

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* Steve Harvey

When those bright, shiny spring days arrive, I like to step outside, gaze at the profusion of blossoming trees and flowers, and then head to the movies. There’s nothing like spending a glorious Saturday or Sunday afternoon holed up in the dark of a half-filled theater. Let others go to the beach. Spring means short popcorn lines to me.

I’m sort of a troglodyte, anyway. The sun is an enemy of my pale Anglo-Saxon complexion. As Woody Allen once said, I don’t tan, I stroke.

Obviously, I won’t spend every afternoon at the movies. This year, I’ve also been waiting for spring to go new-car shopping. And I intend to devote some sunny days to pursuing my genealogy hobby in musty libraries. For me, spring also means an available computer card catalog.

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* S. Irene Virbila

I know spring’s finally here by what turns up at the Farmer’s Market:

English peas for a risi e bisi, the Venetian dish of rice and peas. The first sweet organic strawberries, ripened a deep red all the way through, for my mother’s rich strawberry shortcake. Fragile little lettuces, thumb-size artichokes, spring onions and tiny new potatoes. I take home brassy gold turnips to cook with their greens, and young chard veined with red.

With luck, I’ll find these same ingredients cropping up on restaurant menus, too. I can’t wait to eat soft-shell crabs, the small tender ones sauteed in butter with lemon and capers, or spring lamb roasted with garlic, thyme and rosemary. I’m looking forward to sorbets that taste like the pure iced fruit.

I start to think about eating outdoors as restaurants sprout sidewalk tables and dust off last year’s umbrellas. Cafe Pinot spreads its tables under the trees next to the central library. Michael’s garden is about to burst into bloom. The Buffalo Club will soon unveil its new outdoor patio. And Spago at the new Beverly Hills location will finally have outdoor dining. What could be more California?

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* Laurie Winer

It’s spring in L.A.--but how do you know? It pretty much stopped raining in December. After the First Rite of Spring--the Oscars--we haul off to Home Depot. Get in touch with the earth, dig in the ground, that sort of thing. Our neighbors manage to maintain greenery year-round; this is when we feel we must make a gesture.

Here’s something I learned when I moved here from New York: Flowers with roots attached are so cheap! But we don’t know much about soil. My husband spreads some pellets that look like plastic bird feed on the ground. (“New! Dynamite Plant Food: 6-month time-released flower and vegetable fertilizer formula.” Sounds good!) If the plant dies you can return it to Home Depot, so what’s to lose? Though I’m not sure I’d have the nerve to return a dead plant.

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* Michael Quintanilla

A sparrow hops onto the edge of the pond’s reflective water for a nip. The emerald leaves of nearby trees whisper to each other in the breeze. And azaleas in fuchsia, white and lavender bathe in the sun.

Spring is unfolding at a Japanese garden in downtown Los Angeles--and coming here to witness it, atop the New Otani Hotel & Garden, is one of my favorite rituals. Located at 120 S. Los Angeles St., in the heart of Little Tokyo, the hotel’s rooftop features more than 50 varieties of trees and shrubs woven into the half-acre strolling public garden. A little hill, a brook and a dazzling waterfall add to the verdant sanctuary in the sky and a panorama of a busy L.A. below.

But I adore it for its simplistic setting, its soothing use of space, its tranquillity. “Yokoso,” or welcome, a marker announces to visitors at the garden’s entrance. “Yokoso” to springtime in L.A.

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* Robert Hilburn

John Fogerty’s “Centerfield,” easily the best baseball song since “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” captures wonderfully both the promise and renewal of spring and it offers the bonus in Los Angeles of pointing, at least indirectly, to one of the great pleasures of living here: Dodger Stadium.

The appeal of the legendary ballpark goes beyond the memories of heroics on the field, from Koufax and Valenzuela to Gibson and Piazza to simply the beauty of the facility. In the city sprawl, Dodger Stadium is like a sanctuary--one of the few places in the increasingly greedy world of pro sports where you can still see a game for less than the price of a movie. But there’s a bittersweet quality about the park this year, following the O’Malley family decision to sell the team. With the wrong buyer, the character and tradition could be wiped away in the stroke of a pen.

Musically, spring in Los Angeles means the joy of the outdoor concert season, particularly the Hollywood Bowl--which may be the loveliest setting, but whose whole picnic vibe tends to distract from the music--and the Greek Theatre, which offers a more intimate setting under the stars and a wider variety of events.

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* Dana Parsons

She was a sad-eyed sphinx of a woman, so, of course, I fell for her. It was a spring day when I caught that first glimpse of her at 19, a week shy of 20, as she walked down the corridor just as I looked up from my desk. “Who was that?” I said to a friend, and the hunt was on, accompanied by birds chirping inside my head.

It was a beautiful season to court, replete with long movie lines on balmy nights, pizza pies after softball games and concerts in the park. The first time I gave her a ride in my car, she was wearing a long flowered dress and the wind caught it just as she sat down. It blew up just over her knee and, when she shyly repositioned it, my brain registered the thought that triggers all love affairs: “Hmmm.”

I was 25 that spring and, gosh, it seems a long time ago. I wonder if, wherever she is now, she remembers any of this and smiles at the thought.

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* Patricia Ward Biederman

As a Philadelphia native, I was raised on the canard that Los Angeles has no seasons. Nonsense. A month ago, my garden in the deepest San Fernando Valley was as dead as the studio system. The roses were thorny sticks. There was no color, except for the indefatigable pink ladies, but winter green.

Now, with no intervention but spring, the garden is as subtly bright as an issue of Martha Stewart Living. The roses are in full bloom--purple and yellow, coral, pink and white. A blue morning glory has wandered over the fence from a neighbor’s yard. The birds chitter in the trees. The Shalimar-like scent of the lavender roses competes with the heavy perfume of the jasmine. How deliciously cool it is. Did I mention there are butterflies?

With sunlight sparkling on the pool, a garden in the Valley is as beautiful as a newborn. It fills you with hope and makes you smile.