Houston’s pollen count — 2536 spores for oak trees alone — led the nation last week.
That translates into more sneezers and wheezers in the Bayou City than anywhere else in America.
These piles congregate to pollinate. In other words, it’s plant sex.
Holy moly, are they promiscuous!
The yellow wormy, stringy things are called catkins, also known as the flowering male of the tree. They morph into pollen then ride the wind, hunting receptors known as stigmas and pistils (the flowering female of the tree).
That Mother Nature recreates this act every spring amazes, in and of itself. But that She, concurrently, creates allergic misery for so many of us humans strikes me as the epitome of irony.
Who’s in charge, you say?
My San Antonio friend Sig McKenna Izbrand dubs this year’s agony “Pollengedden.”
One photo from her backyard illustrates why.
Would you want to swim in those inviting waters after seeing that line of pollen?
The line resembles a crossing‐of‐the‐Rubicon of sorts: what’s in the water, what can I not see?
What’s a RoadBroad to do?
Pack eyedrops, an extra wad of tissues plus sore throat drops then hit the sidewalk.
Sagging senior thighs outrank four miles of sniffles.