My Word's Worth: a weekly column by Marylaine Block

vol. 2, #29, February 28, 1997

THE FOUR SEASONS

The nights were long and cold and scary
Can we live through February?
Dar Williams

I don't know about you, but whenever Iowa makes the national news with its blizzards and flooding, I start hearing from my friends in southern California, who can't understand why I stay in the midwest. Or indeed, why anyone stays here.. And some years I admit, it's a little harder than others to explain--or for that matter, remember--why it is I like living in the midwest, aka the "temperate zone."

So, why is it we haven't all moved to California?

Some of us, to be sure, wouldn't move to California because we think it's kind of a crazy place, full of rootless people who thought that by getting away from winter they would get away from every other problem in their lives. It's not a pretty thing, the politics of people who don't understand why they're still not happy.

For me, California makes no sense. You've got this desert, so what do you do? You move 20 million people or so in to enjoy it, all of whom want to take daily showers and water their lawns. Those long lazy days without rain may be great for going to the beach, but when the hot Santa Ana winds sweep across the dried out brush surrounding your home, they may burn it down. When you do get rain, of course, you get so much that your house may just slide downhill into someone else's back yard. And then there's the fact that you can't absolutely count on the ground beneath your feet staying there.

Mind you, southern California IS a pretty place--when there's not too much smog to see it, that is.

Well, those are some reasons for not moving to California. But let's talk about why we stay HERE. Regardless of snow and occasional flooding.

For some of us, of course, it's the simple fact that this is where we grew up, or have lived for a long time, where we have worked and raised our families, where we have put down roots. It's where the people we care about are, where we've built lives, built community.

And for a lot of us, a year without four seasons is like an artificial Christmas tree--if you don't look too close, it sort of looks real. But get a little closer, and it doesn't look right at all, or feel right or smell right, or make it feel like Christmas.

Maybe our attachment has something to do with roots in the soil. Even those of us who aren't farmers can feel that closeness to the earth generated by the slow, regular cycling of seasons. Each season brings something special to savor.

Spring--now that's the easy one. Even January and February will occasionally tease us with a day or two of sun and warm temperatures--enough so that we get out the bikes, or running shoes, ditch the winter coats, and go out and play frisbee or fish or play a round of golf or just enjoy the outdoors. The snow and bitter chill come back, of course. But come February, the boys go off to spring training in Florida and Arizona--better proof than any groundhog that April is coming and the arctic is receding. Come March, we have crocuses, and birds twittering in the early morning light. April brings irises and tulips and bleeding heart and rhubarb.

Where there are no flowers, there is greenness to stun the senses, grass and trees and bushes and burgeoning plants. And there are the rich spring smells--freshly turned earth, lilacs opening up, grass after rain.

By May, the days are longer, and warmer, and it's easier to chat outdoors with the neighbors. We get our grills out and pretty soon the air is filled with the aroma of charcoal and hamburgers and bratwurst. We may wake up a bit earlier so we can take that brisk walk around the park before we go to work. We can hang our laundry out to dry in the sun and revel in the freshness on it as we fold the sheets and put them away. We gardeners are already down on our knees, grubbing around in the dirt, planting roses and tomatoes and hope.

June comes with an eruption of kids, bursting out of schools, full of noise and energy and crazy schemes, and you wonder where they've been all winter. Many of us are on vacation, with time to spend puttering or traveling or fixing our houses or teaching the kids to ride bikes and play jacks and baseball.

By July, it's downright hot, and we strip down to shorts and t-shirts and bask in the warmth that feels that much better because our bones still harbor a little chill from those spells of thirty below zero. We can laze in the sun, and get hot and sweaty, then jump in the pool or run through the sprinkler to cool off. When we want onions or peppers or lettuce for our dinner, we can wander out into the garden and pick them fresh.

The light just goes on and on. When the fourth of July comes along, it isn't properly dark enough to start the fireworks until after 9:30. Even if we've worked until 5 or 6, there's still daylight left for playing in.

By September, the days are getting noticeably shorter, again, but there are compensations. By now, we've had enough of 95 degrees and 95% humidity. The house is quiet again because the kids are back in school, and we realize anew how much easier it is to love them when somebody else is tending them and filling up their minds for 8 hours every day. The days are still warm, but the nights are cool, and it feels good to have to put on a sweater in the faint evening chill.

The late season flowers keep on blooming through mid-October, while the burning bush plants start turning bright scarlet. The trees, now vividly red and yellow and orange--well, I'm pretty sure they're what the Hollow Men were talking about when they sang "Here comes November and it's burning up the sky." Then the leaves drop and we have to rake them up, and pretty soon the air is filled with the smell of burning leaves. The air starts turning crisp and dry. And then, just as you're resigning yourself to the onset of winter, you get one or two glorious weeks of returning summer.

At this point the folks from California and Florida are now saying, yes, yes, that's all very well, but how can you stay there in WINTER?

And the answer is, I guess, that winter makes you appreciate everything else, in the same way that getting horribly disgustingly sick makes you truly appreciate simply feeling blah. I'm with Vivaldi, who didn't write his concerto about three seasons. The winter section of that concerto is, I think, the richest. It's jagged, piercing, almost assaultive--and stunning.

Winter, I think, must have a lot to do with how religion got started. It's all about dying--dying of the light, dying of the trees, dying of the flowers, dying of the warmth. And none of it stays dead.

We are a species that lives by metaphor. We look at all that and say, those things don't really die. They will be born again--and so shall we.

All of which is not to say that winter doesn't offer some positive pleasures of its own. There's Christmas, of course, and yes, you can celebrate Christmas in California, too, like my brother who called me from Pasadena where he was planting bulbs on Christmas day. But that just seems terribly wrong to me. Why on earth would Santa need a sleigh in California, pray tell? Christmas requires snow.

Then there's the gorgeousness and stillness of a world turned white, and the inexpressible loveliness of tree branches coated with ice, reflecting the bright cold sun. It's a season for kids, who have the fun of sledding and skating and building snowmen and throwing snowballs, then coming inside to hot cocoa or eggnog.

Oddly enough, when I think of winter, I think of warmth. There's the comfort of dreaming in front of a fireplace. There's the pleasure of curling up in a warm bed, while your face, and the air you breathe, are chilled. There's the creature comfort of sharing body heat with someone you love. Or even with your pets-- December and January are full of three cat nights.

Winter is huddling together time. Whether we're playing ruthless games of Monopoly, or reading out loud or watching TV or playing music, it's a wonderful time for us to spend as families, safe indoors and warm together, getting to know each other all over again.

Not that it's fun to bear the bitter chill and the heavy snowfall. But as we shovel, and slog through the snow, and scrape the ice off our car windows, those of us who farm or garden are able to say, "at last the drought is broken." The wells will have water, and the soil will be ready for our seeds. Even the most inconvenient of winter weather works to our advantage in the long run.

I guess what I'm saying is that those of us who stick it out through the worst the midwest winters have to offer--well, we're a long-run sort of people. We don't scare easy, and we don't run when things get tough.

That doesn't make us better than the folks in Florida or California. But it does make us strong. We're comfortable with ourselves and with our families and communities.

And REALLY eager for spring to start the whole lovely process over again.

NOTE: My thinking is always a work in progress. You could mentally insert all my columns in between these two sentences: "This is something I've been thinking about," and "Does this make any sense to you?" I welcome your thoughts. Please send your comments about these columns to: marylaine at netexpress.net. Since I've written a lot of these, some of them many years ago, help me out by telling me which column you're referring to.

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