While wandering around our local high school ballparks the past few weeks, the sights, sounds and smells of spring have really taken hold of my senses.

The view of a baseball field on an 80-degree afternoon, with the warm sun beating down and a slight breeze whistling in the ears always brings a smile to my face. The sound of scuffling cleats on concrete and the ping of aluminum is more a sign of spring than any groundhog’s shadow.

And the smells. My goodness, the smells.

Hamburgers cooking on a concession stand grill. Musty dirt in the dugout. The scent of fresh cut grass blowing in from the outfield.

Ah yes, the grass. I’ve been sniffing that sweet smell like a cartoon hobo drifting toward a pie cooling on the windowsill. When our baseball and softball coaches work on their fields, I get a bit jealous and twitchy.

You see, I love cutting grass. It’s a relaxing few hours isolated from the world, when the phone is in the house and the best songs on my iPod are playing in my ears. For a month, I was been itching to enjoy that time. For a month, I was denied it.

Each afternoon that’s been set aside for the first mow of the year was spoiled by rain. It takes a couple of hours to mow and weedeat our corner lot, and there’s nothing worse than being interrupted in the middle of it by a rain shower or an obligation. So, it gets put off until the weekend.

And then it rains.

Wednesday is a day off.

It rains some more.

Saturday? Sunday?

Let’s just say Mother Nature is messing with my head at this point.

Meanwhile, our yard looked like a cross between a Central American jungle, a clover patch big enough to hide 50 leprechauns in, and an abandoned lot. I think we had an unidentified tribe living out by the mailbox. Poor things were being hunted by the Predator who landed next to the tree two weeks ago.

I came home the other day and our cat’s tail was just poking above the weeds like a periscope.

Yesterday I found a thigh-high ant hill shrouded in weeds. I call it Antropolis.

Last Saturday night, I opened the door to let the cat in and a raccoon — the wife and I named him “Earl” — peeked around the corner. He had an expression that said, “Dude, let me in. This is getting nasty out here.”

I stomped my foot and Earl ran off. Nomad, the cat, just watched him scamper past. She’s smart. It’s not wise to go into the jungle at night.

On Wednesday, the stars finally aligned. I broke out the mower and attacked the yard like a kid eating leftover Easter candy. When it was finished, I slung the weedeater over my shoulder and paraded back to the shed like a conquering hero. A job well done — or just done — is a wonderful feeling.

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Ernest Bowker is a sports writer. He can be reached at 601-619-7120 or by email at ernest.bowker@vicksburgpost.com