Jessie: Back in New Hampshire, dreaming of wood smoke and apple cider
I’m sure I don’t need to remind any of our readers that the days are noticeably shorter and the leaves on the trees are showing their age. Despite the heat wave earlier this week cold weather will be upon us before long. Bathing suits will go into hibernation and Icelandic sweaters will take their turn at center stage. The BBQ grill will languish forlornly in a far corner of the deck and the slow cooker will assume pride of place on the kitchen counter. Freshly baked bread will replace cool garden salads and layers of body fat will seem like good planning instead of evidence of gluttony.
I love summer. I adore the languid pace, the bone-deep heat, the time I spend on the beach inhaling the salt breeze, lulled by the sound of the waves. I relish the abundance of fresh produce and the way I feel all hopped up on Vitamin D. I delight in hearing the twitter of birds and the buzzing of bees. I revel in clipping bountiful bouquets from my gardens. I rejoice in making plans that won’t be derailed by snowstorms.
But, in my heart of hearts I know I am a faithless lover. By late August my thoughts have turned to pencil boxes and composition notebooks. I crave a cool rainy day custom made for roasting a chicken and tucking up under a quilt with a book. I unabashedly cruise the knitting website Ravelry for cabled sweater patterns. I pull out my favorite knee-high leather boots and try them on just because I miss them.
Before the jack-o-lanterns are carved I find myself thinking of snow and tinsel and counting down to the new year. By Valentine’s Day I am searching online for deals on a Caribbean cruise and planning a menu for Easter dinner. Before the last of the Easter ham has been turned into pea soup I book a pedicure for sandal season.
It helps that with a few strokes of the keys I can create a world where the season perfectly aligns with my fickle heart. In the dead of winter I am free to imagine characters suffering from heat stroke. In the midst of a heat wave I can drum up a squall or a skating party or a foot plagued by frostbitten toes. What more could I possibly ask for?
Readers, do you ever wish for the pleasures of other seasons? If so, which ones do you most miss? Writers, do you find yourself writing out of season? Do you like to do so or is it difficult?