Winter arrived last weekend. I knew winter had come because it was too cold to leave the window in the bedroom open, and even with it closed I needed an additional quilt layer on the bed. And the rain, of course.
I’m still trying to catch up.
During my childhood in eastern Idaho, the seasons were long, slow things that drifted into each other in a stately and dignified march. Spring meant weeks of anticipation as the snow began to melt, the weather warmed, and the earth woke up slowly and somewhat cranky (rather like myself in the morning). Spring gradually moved into summer, marked by the last day of school and days really warm enough to leave the sweater at home. Autumn meant crisp days scented with wood smoke and colored by leaves and pumpkins. Around the time the last leaf gave out, the first snow would come and the world would go back to sleep.
Here in the Portland metro area, seasons change fast. One day it’s 85 degrees and sunny and I have the fans going. The next day (literally) the furnace starts running, I’m cranking up the gas fireplace, and the cold rains have come. Spring comes when the rains turn warmer. And my lawn needs mowing year round.
I keep waiting for the gradual seasonal changes of my childhood. After 30 years in Portland, it has occurred to me that I’m not going to get them. But I keep hoping.
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