JANICE JORDAN -- Guest columnist

This past weekend, I happened to glance out my kitchen window and noticed

that the tree in my neighbor’s front yard had bloomed overnight. I

studied the delicate, lacy, new leaves fluttering in the breeze and at

just the moment I was thinking, “How pretty,” I sneezed.

Imagine the opening notes of the theme from “Jaws” accompanying the sense

of dread that washed over me as I quickly added up the familiar pieces:

late February rains, the incipiently budding tree, the pollen-laden

breeze, and most ominous of all, The March Sneeze.

Drat! Spring! For millions of people like myself, spring means three

months of hay fever-induced misery.

I reflexively scratched my upper palate with my tongue as I made a mental

note to buy a starter case of Kleenex and to put my ear, nose and throat

doctor’s home number back on speed dial.

Scoff if you will, but after a lifetime of allergies, I knew what was

coming because some things don’t change.

Allow me to illustrate with a graphic depiction from childhood. It’s

early morning in the Valley. My sister and I are asleep in our matching

twin beds. The only sounds of life come from the chirps of the birds

outside our window.

But wait. My nose just twitched. Then, seconds later, I sniffle. Two

pairs of eyes open. Now it’s a waiting game. My nose contorts furiously

as I labor valiantly, trying not to sneeze.

Meanwhile, over in the other bed, my sister’s jaw tightens. Inevitably,

despite a Herculean effort, I can’t hold back the dam any longer.

Allowing a pressure-building lapse of 10 seconds or so between each

explosion, I commence to violently sneeze anywhere from 15 to 30 times in

a row.

Meanwhile, over in the other bed, my sister has buried her head in her

pillow and is now grinding her teeth. Eventually, I somehow sense when

the final histamine has been expelled from my ravaged nasal passages, and

I sneeze the final sneeze of the morning.

Meanwhile, over in the other bed, my sister sighs bitterly as the birds

continue to chirp away. I can’t say I blame her, since we repeat this

scenario with “Groundhog Day”-like precision 90 spring mornings in a row

for 10 years straight.

But now it’s Spring 2000. A week has passed since the neighbor’s tree

bloomed. It’s midmorning in the Valley as I write these last words.

Descendants of those allergy-free birds are chirping outside. In the

distance, I can make out, here and there, a growing symphony of

neighborhood sneezes piercing the air. They remind me of the songs of

humpback whales. Each sneeze, like each whale’s song, carries its own

unique signature.

I’m particularly impressed by the person whose sneeze I hear outside

right now, whose sneezes come out sounding remarkably like shrieks. As I

wait for my antihistamine to kick in, my dog and I sneeze in solidarity.

Stupid birds.

* JANICE JORDAN is a writer who lives in Studio City.