I’ve argued with myself as to which childhood season was my favorite. It goes something like this. When it was spring and the daffodils awoke and put on their yellow, frilly dresses; and the grass was a soft, green cushion underneath my feet; and the air was a little cool but with a touch of warmth in it; and when it refreshed my soul and made me yawn loudly; and the earth was warm enough for me to kick my shoes across the yard and go bare-footing it through the meadow; and the butterflies flitted back and forth from flower-to-flower; and the bees sucked their nectar from the sweet honeysuckles; and the birds chirped from the nearest tree branch, then I just loved springtime and swore that it was my favorite season.
Then, lo and behold, when spring with its warm, charming personality crept quietly away; and the days grew long and hot and I could finally put my heavy, dreaded, winter clothes as far back in the chifferobe as I could for a little spell; then grab my tin bucket and head for the blackberry path or the plum orchard; then trot back home with a pail full of naturally grown, big, juicy blackberries and plump, sweet plums and didn’t have to give any to Mother for baking, then I decided summer was my favorite season.
Then, after a spell, the long, hot days cooled off. The sun seemed to grow tired and weary of smiling so long and hard; and the grass that was once green decided to change its wardrobe to a dull, dark, drab brown to fit in with the landscape; and the trees that weren’t pines looked through their closets for something bright and bold and colorful and beautiful to throw on to strut around in; and when everybody sung their praises of the beautiful, breathtaking autumn time, then I couldn’t help but declare autumn as my favorite season, especially since my favorite month, October, comes in this season.
Then, last of all, I have one more choice to pit against the other seasons to see which one was actually my favorite. The first three predecessors have vied hard to come out on top, but I still have to give winter its chance. With its onset, all I could think about was Christmas is coming and my fingers were crossed that before Christmas arrived, it would snow … big time, but in Southern Arkansas, it never snows before Christmas, but that didn’t stop me from holding onto my dream that Mother Nature would shake her blankets up in the steel blue sky and those oddly-shaped crystals would float down and turn my world into a magical, white winter wonderland. When Nature snowed, I had a feast for my eyes and my soul. At that moment, I was convinced that winter (despite its brutal, bone-chilling cold) was my favorite season. Eventually I forgave all the dancing, twirling snowflakes for not arriving in time to give me a “White Christmas,” but that was okay. I lived it down.
So, with all I’ve said, you still don’t know which season was my favorite – and neither do I, so I guess they all will stay on equal footing as my favorites.
Photo by Fotolia/diyanadmitrova
