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I am a native Californian, living the first eighteen years of my life in the City by the Bay, and the rest of my life in Los Angeles. I have been told that Californians, especially those in Southern California, do not experience seasons. If having seasons means the complete changing of the leaves in fall and snow flurries in early winter, and the melting of the snow in early spring, then, by definition, California does not have seasons. But for me, seasons are so much more: they are memories of poignant changes within my family and myself, the ebbs and flows of schedules and routines.
Seasons are my mother reminding me not to wear white after Labor Day. She took to heart her own words in late August, as she reorganized her closets, switching light cottons and seersuckers for heavier wools and tweeds. Regardless of September often developing into the hottest month of the year in San Francisco, my clothing choices in my own closet were only dark fall colors. We didn’t have an Eastern autumn, yet my memories and my wardrobe reflected otherwise.
My children’s return to school punctuated my fall. We suddenly said goodbye to our lazy days of easier schedules, swimming afternoons, Nintendo marathons, camp, and extended television hours. Such relaxed days morphed into a frenzy of homework, soccer practices, school meetings, and earlier bedtimes. Today, I recollect with a slight yearning for this electric energy and these rhythmic days that possessed their own innocence. Back-to-School Night gave us a chance to meet our sons’ teachers and to learn of their upcoming projects and programs. My days were filled with early morning preparations, preparing brown-bag lunches, carpools, and hurrying home from my own teaching to be there when the afternoon bell rang.
Fall also meant shopping for pumpkins and the pressure of choosing the best Halloween costumes. October 31st now involves trick-or-treating with our grandchildren, taking them on the same path their daddy once walked, and eyeing the homes decorated with jack-o-lanterns and skeletons.
One of my favorite holidays of the year is Thanksgiving, which is also the time of one of my son’s birthdays. It is a joyous time of year for family and dear friends who come together to eat delicious comfort food. Despite the often 80-degree weather outside, internally I have a sense of the cooler weather to come.
When the holidays come, what gifts to buy and what foods to cook preoccupy my thoughts, marking the beginning of my winter. There are times when I am holiday gift shopping while wearing flip-flops and without even a sweater, something unfathomable for East Coasters at this time of year. During these darker months, I also become hungrier, craving carbs and sugar as if some primeval memory prepares my body to store its food for a non-existent hibernation.
My winter once denoted returning home to San Francisco to visit my family, first from the university and eventually with my husband and our children. My mother’s Christmas dinner morphed into brunch as she aged. It didn’t matter what food was served or the time of day, but it was the energy in the air, in the house, the excitement of coming together that I now hold deep within me.
Today, my winter reflects the joy of having my grandchildren run barefoot throughout the house in December. They are often still in light-weight clothes, unfamiliar with the slippers I wore to warm my feet as I, too, trounced down the hallway of my childhood home. My house becomes cooler, so I exchange my light nightgown for one with sleeves under my cozy, quilted robe. The lights which adorn various neighborhood houses come alive at night as darkness begins before dinner.
The end of the year has become a tradition to celebrate with dear friends. To force ourselves to stay up until midnight as we watch Times Square and the ball drop, hailing in yet another new year with great promise for what is to come and letting go of what wasn’t quite so wonderful during the past year. This is the season of hope, of knowing that we have a new year ahead, of a clean slate, with our silent prayers of good health for us and our loved ones so we can enjoy our days—our seasons. This is my winter.
Spring shows through the fullness of our trees and the “cool” 65-70-degree weather. We in Los Angeles have not come out of a deep thaw or a winter of shoveling snow, but metaphorically my soul has. We move our clocks ahead one hour, so it is lighter later and I can walk my dear, sweet Emma after dinner. When the sun continues through early evening, I have less interest in curling up by a fire despite the outside temperature. More people are out and about. Spring means we have a hint of summer coming, to see what the sun can really do. We come together at our Seder and sense the potential for rebirth and promise. This is my spring.
Despite the brilliant sun that is fairly constant in Los Angeles, we do have seasons. Yet, they are not ones always based on weather, but rather on the experiences and memories I hold so dear: the celebration of holidays, my family coming together, and an understanding that life cycles move along within the rhythmic passage of our seasons.
