March 30, 2026 by D. Paul Graham

Ever curious and always amused by the quirks of life, join D. Paul Graham each Monday for more M5T pondering.

***“Pollen on Paul” Springtime in Savannah. Photo by D. Paul Graham, Savannah circa anytime in March.***

In March, Savannah doesn’t just have pollen. Pollen has a controlling interest in Savannah.

Spring here doesn’t arrive gently. It arrives like it’s been planning something all winter. The azaleas bloom on cue, the light turns cinematic, and the trees, especially the pine trees, declare war on noses, eyes, and throats.

With apologies to my family and friends in the Great White North who are still shoveling white stuff off their driveways, this morning’s M5T shares March in Savannah where yellow is once again a lifestyle.

1. SAVANNAH’S SEASONAL WRAP. I washed my car a few days ago with the passion of a man who still believes effort matters. I left the kind of clean that my walk-away glance-back was like I’d accomplished something meaningful as the Lunar Blue Metallic paint color sparkled in the late day sunlight.

Leaving a meeting 2 hours later, my car looked like it had been dusted by an overly enthusiastic pastry chef. Not splattered. Not dirty. It was evenly coated, as if Savannah itself took a step back and said, “let’s finish this properly shall we.”

My car’s paint was no longer my choice. It became a collaboration between man, pine, live oaks, and juniper trees. Washing my car now feels less like maintenance and more like denial. A brief unveiling of the original color before nature politely corrects me with an arboreal based collaboration of vibrant yellow.

2. POLLEN IS NO LONGER A SUBSTANCE. IT’S A STRATEGY. We’ve underestimated pollen. This isn’t drifting debris. This is a coordinated campaign that has patience, persistence, andisturbing attention to detail. I’ve watched pollen hover. Linger. Double back like it forgot something important. I’ve closed every door. Sealed every window. Declared our condo a sovereign nation. Yet I’ve still found pollen on my desk like it arrived before I woke up and made itself comfy. Pollen shows up on books I hadn’t touched. Inside a glass cabinet. On surfaces that require intention, and possibly a ladder, to reach. Explain to me how this happens please.

At this point, I’m not asking how it gets in. Between coughs and sneezes, I’m asking what its long-term plan is. I suspect we aren’t anywhere near peak pollen. It’s merely phase one of a well-planned botanical takeover.

3. SNEEZING BECOMES A PERFORMANCE SPORT. March sneezes are not casual events. They are commitments. They build like a storm system. There’s a moment, just before impact, where you realize this is about to involve your entire body. Then it happens. It’s loud. It’s dramatic. It hurts. It’s the kind of sneeze that makes nearby people instinctively step back and reconsider their involvement with you. Sneezing is a trilogy of the warning, the main event, and the encore, because you don’t just sneeze once.

Post sneezes, there’s always a pause. A quiet, reflective moment where you sit there and think, “Wow! That took something out of me.” “Bless you” feels wildly inadequate.

4. EVERYTHING DEVELOPS A TEXTURE. Savannah in March introduces a new finish called pollen matte. Subtle at first. Then Unavoidable. Every surface has a faint, unmistakable grit. Outdoor tables wear a fine, even coat. Door handles drag slightly, just enough to be noticed. Your forearms feel brushed by something you didn’t agree to. I leaned against my car and left a handprint so clean it looked curated, as if it was an artist’s mark on a piece I never agreed to exhibit.

And once you notice it, you can’t un-notice it. You start testing surfaces. Running a finger across counter tops. Windowsills. Armrests. Rear windows of cars. Conducting quiet inspections like a CSI detective assigned to a very yellow crime scene. The suspect? Everything with ambition to bloom.

5. AIR IS AN EXPERIENCE YOU PARTICIPATE IN. There’s a glow over Savannah right now that feels surreal. Warm light. Soft haze. A golden filter that makes everything look like a memory you haven’t yet lived. Until you inhale. This isn’t air anymore. It’s atmosphere with resolve.

Each breath carries notes like a fine wine. The top layer is oak. Mid tones are pine. And the finish is regret. You don’t just move through the air in March. You engage with it. You interact with it. It becomes personal.

Yet somehow, it’s still beautiful. It might be the most Savannah thing of all, which is to be both charming and passive aggressive at the same time.

Savannah in March is a paradox. Elegant, but relentless. Beautiful, but invasive. A place where everything is in bloom and nothing is untouched.

Here’s to a week of living slightly dusted.

Paul continues to trust Claritin, stockpile Kleenex, and participate in the ritual of washing his car merely for the amusement of the trees.

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