Seasons and Change

Last week the heat could have fried an egg on the pavement.

Come Monday, it started to rain. Every day. Heavy. Sheets of rain pouring over the mountains in front of our house. It would stop around 3 pm and things would dry off as best as the atmosphere would allow, only to start the cycle again just before sunrise. With the rain came air as cold and damp as you would have expected in early April. People shuffled down the narrow streets holding their umbrellas over them, fighting the wind, all bundled into long rain coats and extra layers. The difference in temperature was simply unbelievable.

It stopped raining on Thursday afternoon and by Friday the skies were clear again. The sun arose with the fierceness of the past month and I expected the temperatures to rebound to their previous swelter.

That didn’t end up to be the case.

And it seems that their will not be an Indian summer like those of my past. This is the time back home that people see the leaves begin to change their color, but nothing of that sort is happening so far here. Expect the air. While that sun does its best to scorch down on you as it has been doing, there is a new wind that blows with its own ferocity, rivaling the energy of the sun.

I took a walk along the ocean today and could feel the change on my ears with the thud, thud, thudding of the wind in them. No longer the soft ocean breeze it was just a short few weeks ago. This new wind comes from miles away, where storms fight their way over the Pacific towards us, and eventually force themselves hard onto the coastline with accompanying mighty waves that crash with more force than I had seen before, leaving a fine, cold mist on your face. The new wind that blows over the shoreline tries hard to push me back away from its shores, as if trying to prove it will soon be threatening us with winter.

As I walk away from the water’s edge, the sun again forces it rays past the wind’s menace until the two manage to find their perfect, temperate balance with one another.

And thus begins that favorite time of year of mine. Where you pull out your cozy sweaters and lap blankets and curl up with a hot tea.

It seems so strange that this year there will be no bright yellow maple and deep red oak leaves falling at my feet to kick aside as I walk down the uneven, brick sidewalks of home. There will be no pumpkins on front porches and Indian corn to hang on the door honoring this favored season.

Home. This is the time of year I think the most about home. When I can reminisce into a deep reverie… listen to country music without feeling any burning embarrassment… or just sit and breathe in the scent of the trees as they shed their crinkled, summer weathered leaves.

As the years change, I seem to have a new place to live almost every year. It makes me constantly re-evaluate what home is… and where it really lies. I don’t know if I will ever find the right answer.

For now, it’s simply the time to drink in this latest home. And time to discover what is sure to be the perfect fall in a far off, eastern world.