Q Y i by Teri Gomes Symptoms of the season As far as the calendar goes it was official of-ficial Tuesday. But unofficially there have been obvious signs of spring all over town for the past few weeks. The Big Meltdown has started, producing the Big Treasure Hunt. Items lost in the snows of winter can turn up all over town. That one child's mitten, the extra set of car keys, the scarf and the hat. In addition, there is The Junk. Beer bottles discarded, empty candy wrappers, broken taillights and trash of no specific description suddenly is everywhere. Respectable front lawns of some of the best houses in town and vacant lots in tired neighborhoods are equally afflicted with The Junk. The days are growing longer and starting with sunlight earlier. They push us to pack more and more into the daylight. And once again, like the dogs of Main Street, the runners of Park Meadows have begun to multiply. I'm not throwing road dust at the regular bunch, Maureen . Traeger, Madeline Smith, Bob Evers and the like. But the runners I can't quite figure out are those who appear to be plugged in to run. They have headphones attached at-tached to their ears with cords leading somewhere on their bodies. I can't help but wonder when I drive past them what would happen if someone were to pull one of their wires. Would they fall into a heap on the pavement unable to run? Invariably it gives me the giggles and I have the urge to sneak up behind one and pull his cord. (No, I haven't yet.) After months of little or no sun, long cold nights and feets and feets (well, what do you call more than a foot) of snow, it is pretty rational behavior to start thinking of warm sandy beaches and all that goes with them. Jack Green, Jan Wilking, Roy and Katherine Reynolds, Richard and Susan Dudley are all gone this week to drink fruity drinks with paper umbrellas um-brellas stuck in them and pink flamingos painted on the side of the frosty glass. Hawaii, Jamaica, the Bermudas, what does it matter who's gone where. They're getting tanned and digging their .collective little toes in the sand and we're not. No one said life is fair. And speaking of fair, just a brief aside here. I know everyone who bought a chance on St. Mary's house drawing was entitled to a chance, but I honestly had hoped St. Somebody would have tossed out all the names that weren't local, thereby giving the local troops a hometown advantage. And wouldn't you just know it, the winner win-ner was from Southern California... Grrrrrrrrr. And perhaps the most convincing sign yet of spring (love those smooth transitions) is the bird's nest I spotted last week surrounded by dozens of birds. The nest is real, contrary to the opinion of cynic Lynn Hughes who claims the thing is probably somebody's leftover Christmas decoration gone astray. For those who wish to watch these contractors, using scavenged bits of string and pieces of twigs, who are currently building in town, I suggest you park directly behind the Handy Bank at First Security and look in the tree there. But don't go disturbing the family; we all know how touchy those expecting can be. Don't we? There is, of course, one other sure sign of spring in a ski town: the short-circuited short-circuited brains of those who work with seasonal people under duress, long hours, slim wages and often unreasonable working conditions. Did that strike a vein with anyone out there? Burn out is the quasi-psychological term. Those who have spent more than one season overworked know its effects ef-fects sharpness of tongue, lagging of spirit, resistance to routine are all obvious ob-vious symptoms. In my line of work, disjointed columns and missed deadlines are advanced ad-vanced signs of the disease. Isn't that right, David...David? Funny, I would have sworn he was here a minute ago. Why does the office smell like cocoa butter?