Autumn by far is my favorite season. The maturation of all that is summer, into the slow decay of change. While the crispness in the air speaks of a foreboding in the distance of the isolated, desolation of winter that lies it seems, just over the horizon.
If I had to choose just one, it would be summer. In summer, you wear shorts; there's baseball to be played and enjoyed; outdoor concerts; grilling steaks; eating ice cream on a park bench with the one you love; growing and eating fresh fruits and vegetables from the garden; sharing cocktails by the fire pit with friends; pouring from a pitcher of sun tea on the patio; watching the acrobatic miracles of hummingbirds at the feeders; and bees gathering pollen and nectar from the plants outside.
I used to love winter, and in many respects I still do. I feel I get a lot more of my writing inspiration and ideas in the winter. And perhaps it may have something to do with my Viking, and Celtic DNA, but outdoors, cold weather doesn't really faze me. While others around bundle up, and bemoan the mercury, I can generally get by with a light jacket. But that's outdoors.
As I've gotten older, when I'm indoors, I freeze to death. I feel every real or imagined icy draft that seems to creep inside. In winter we get hot cocoa; homemade soups; scotch whisky by a roaring fire; egg nog; holidays spent entertaining good friends; the smell of pine; and the silence that comes during a heavy snow.
But, it's also cold and flu season; more layers of bulky clothes to wear; wet boots; chapped lips; icy roads; and dry, itchy, ashy skin.
When is opening day again?