Taking It All In on Day That Was Cut Above

This was the day the doubts disappeared and the smugness returned, the day when we all could gloat about being the Chosen Few (million) assigned by God to inhabit this Edenic playground that is Southern California.

Surely we’ve done something right to get all this.

Since the deluges of February, we’ve had some balmy weather, but Tuesday was balm weather--the kind that’s good for the soul and makes you feel that all things are possible.

I’m not sure why the mood hit on Tuesday, but everyone seemed to be talking about it. Monday was not exactly chopped liver, and the temperature probably had inched up only a few degrees on Tuesday morning. Still, it hit me on the way to work, with my first glimpse of the snow-capped San Gabriels, that this day was a cut above. Funny, I hadn’t remembered seeing them just the day before.

At the office, the first people I talked to mentioned the brilliance of the morning. Later, an editor mentioned it. Then my lunch companion. We wound up walking a couple blocks and eating outdoors next to a duck pond. It was the kind of day when you wanted to fan out in all directions and take it all in. The kind of day when you wished Orange County was more compact and lent itself to the Circle Line, like you can take around Manhattan Island or on the river through downtown Chicago.

Instead, I made my own little loop.

I’d originally planned to head out toward Modjeska Canyon, but there’s something about weather like this that pulls you like a magnet toward the ocean. So, I headed south on the 405 and peeled off at University to angle down to the coast. An Irvine that I usually associate with confusing streets and too many housing tracts looked on this day like nothing but beautiful hills and wildflowers.

I passed one of my favorite golf courses and saw a foursome on the tee box. I thought of my buddies from Nebraska days and made a note to check the day’s high temperature for Omaha. It was 21 degrees.

On this day of rejoicing, at least one man chose to protest. He was standing at the entrance to UC Irvine, holding a sign: “Blessed are those that cut through the bull.”

On a blue Monday, I might have stopped to check out his beef.

On this ruby Tuesday, my thoughts while cruising past were, “Amen, brother, and have a nice day.”

I followed University to where it intersects with Jamboree and takes you to Coast Highway. Jamboree seemed especially crowded, and it was easy to believe on this day of days that everyone--women in their VW convertibles and rich men in their gold Jaguars and red Corvettes--was heading for the coast for some kind of communal celebration.

I stayed on Coast Highway up to Dover and began winding back, onto Irvine Avenue and the 73 Freeway. I cut a guy off when the road narrowed and gave him a friendly 75-degree-day-and-we’re-in-California wave. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

Having completed my circuit, I’m not sure I could tell you why this particular day seemed to enthrall people. After all, we’ve had grand days before; we’ll see a million more.

But for whatever reasons, this was the one. Even though we Southern Californians revel in our inside joke about how great the climate is, it’s good to know that individual days still can separate themselves from the crowd.

We all seemed to pick Tuesday, and that’s that.

Back in the office, I returned a Chicago friend’s call from Monday. An unusually user-friendly winter, she said, had produced tulips in her garden six weeks ahead of schedule. Then came Monday and a blizzard that dropped a foot of snow. No sign of the tulips.

Tee-hee.

I shouldn’t laugh. Honestly, I have nothing against tulips. But March is too early for tulips in Chicago. It means the locals haven’t suffered enough from the winter.

How can we feel special in Southern California if places like Chicago and Buffalo don’t get dumped on? Our exultation must come at someone else’s expense.

It’s the natural order of things, and it’s why while spinning up the 73 Freeway I had the sunroof back, the windows down and the radio blasting.

I looked through my sunroof up at the sky, squinting. All I saw was a big blue panorama, a giant blue-sky ceiling under which God’s chosen people could play all day.

This is Southern California, baby.

Another day, another bright red tulip.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by calling (714) 966-7821 or by writing to him at the Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or by e-mail to dana.parsons@latimes.com