Growing up in Ohio, life is all about the seasons. We grew up in west Chester. It started out as a sleepy little suburb with big yards. Our parcel used to be part of a farm an a piece of barb wire fence still existed in the back at the end of the property. The 1/4 acre lots seems especially spacious in comparison to our outer San Francisco shack we call a home. The thing I miss the most in California is the seasons.
My mother grew up splitting time between New York and Florida. My father was from rural Kentucky. They were an odd match. I think he was more in his element in the outdoors. She enjoyed the suburban existence but had a neurotic fear of driving which made sprawl uncomfortable for her. Many were the days I resented her for not being willing to drive us somewhere. Last year, I had a massive panic attack while driving my mini- van. The past repeating itself.
I realize as an adult my mother had some type of anxiety disorder and my father was a late in life alcoholic. He was the stoic sort that was quick with a joke and withheld most of his opinions. She was funny and never held back what she thought. Until the day she died, she thought I needed to get my hair curled and wear more make- up. It makes me laugh when I think about it.
Seasons are like moods. Our life is colored by our environment. Beyond watching sports, raking leaves, shoveling snow, and getting a tan in the yard a season means more time has passed. A chance to heal, a chance to gather my thoughts. I miss laying in the tall grass in my parents yard, staring at the clouds. When I look at the shapes form, l believe I can be happy. I can escape in to my thoughts. I love to hear the crickets. No shoes, no restrictions. No arguing. My favorite season. My mood. My thought of promises never kept in the clouds.
California life is very different. Strawberry picking with my kids is my favorite. I'm making new season flavored memories.