This week’s column is begun with a posthumous apology for its title. Since I’m still in the world (I wonder if wood laminate counts as wood) the “posthumous” part refers not to the transgressor, me, but to the “transgressee,” the late (1849) composer Frederic Chopin. I should probably take this opportunity to ask forgiveness from the nation of Poland as well.

Clark Gable, Jean Harlow and Mary Astor starred in “Red Dust” (1932), but lately, we’ve all been appearing in the greenish-yellow dust of tree pollen, much to the greater detriment of some.

A television report stated this season’s pollen is the worst in several decades.

One recent morning, I woke up with the firm assurance (“certain” might be a less ambiguous modifier of “assurance,” in keeping with this column’s “G” rating) that the pollen finally “got” me, as in the childhood game of tag.

The sure sign was that I couldn’t swallow sans great throat pain. I reached for Coca Cola before my coffee, remembering Dr. Myron Goodman’s advice on a sore throat. In addition to any warranted medication, he told me years ago that some relief of pain could be had by drinking a Coke, stating that its tiny exploding bubbles of carbonation help “massage” some of the soreness away.

Doctor Goodman was right! I also washed down a Claritin and was ready for my daily exercise walk in the pollen. A short rain shower had preceded me, and I passed an area where there was a dip in the paved road next to the sidewalk. In that spot, rain had collected, resembling a vernal pool, with the exception that its bottom was paved; so perhaps it could be called a “man-made” vernal pool.

The top of that little “street pool” was jaundice-yellow with pollen. A few drops of oil had dripped out of a passing car, making the pollen spiral into patterns. Suddenly, the old PAAS “Swirl-an-Egg” Easter decorating kit came to mind; but any egg dyed in this roadside “cup” would have gone away to nothing on its own, as no one would have dared eaten it.

The pollen and the oil made for an odd combination in the water. While mentioning unusual combinations, I declare my life-long fondness for Cheerwine, and for a Krispy Kreme donut every now and then, but sometimes have my doubts about their fusion into that one-of-a-kind “éclair.”

While walking uphill, I noticed yellowy, “pollinated” water running into a storm drain. Immediately, “Ghost Busters” came to mind, and I imagined a river of sinister, “ectoplasmic pollen” flowing beneath the full length and breadth of the city.

A past exhibit at the science museum where I work displayed magnified grains of pollen in a monitor. One kind, round with spikes, made me think of my Uncle Eustace’s service on a World War II minesweeper. Thinking of inhaling those orbs exhibited under magnification made my lungs feel similarly “mined.”

Due to the pollen, I wasn’t able to put in my contact lenses before beginning my walk, so everything looked like a Monet painting. I had seen the little asphalt-lined “pollen pool” clearly enough, but even it had the look of a slightly fuzzy “water garden.”

I did put my contacts in before driving to Walmart, then removed them before entering the store, as the “itchiness” was already setting in. The people at (and of) Walmart never looked better, aided by my myopic “airbrushing!”

I had listened to my better judgment (and the law) about wearing my contacts while driving, despite the painful pollen irritation. My imaginary Monet painting of a crystal-clear steering wheel foreground set against an “impressionistic” roadway background was too frightful to contemplate! Such a work could have been titled “At the Wheel — Monet,” or even “Monet at the Wheel.” (But I’m not seriously suggesting that Impressionism was inspired by nearsightedness.)

In a paraphrase of that much-overused saying concerning lemons: “When life gives you pollen, write about it.” So now I have.