Shut Up about Seasons

"What foolish forgetfulness or mortality to defer wise resolutions to the fiftieth or sixtieth year, and to intend to begin life at a point to which few have attained."

 - Denis Diderot

The sun sets by 4:30 and never makes it to the top of the sky at noon because I now live at latitude 47N and tomorrow is December.

In addition to coastal regions bordering the Mediterranean Sea, the fabled Mediterranean Climate (30-45 degrees north and south of the equator) are found in western coastal regions of large subtropical continents including Southern California, central Chile, southern Western Australia and the western cape of South Africa. I lived in a Mediterranean climate until last week.

I had to use the defroster on high to melt the ice on my windshield this morning, which I appreciated the hell out of because it gave me time to overcome the shock of needing an ice scraper. (Notice the outside temperature in the upper left corner of dash display.) When I moved here a week ago, the temperature was 43f and I was assured this is as cold as it gets. (Insert insufferable joke about how now I live where they have seasons.) Just because meteorologists in San Diego rarely use the term wind-chill factor, doesn’t mean they don’t, quotey hands, appreciate it. Despite what some people think, there are seasons in Mediterranean climates. They are slightly subtler than a blizzard or a hurricane; and the understated charm of warm sunshine cannot be overstated. The beauties of the swirling grey fog at noon escape me.

Basking in the breeze from my Dyson heater, and in the glow of my full-spectrum light bulb I’m taking a break from unpacking boxes and wondering what the hell I was thinking moving here alone this time of year as we head into the colder, shorter and darker days of the year.

While the industrial strength grease prescribed for my anxiety-induced hives has begun to stop the blistering and itching, I was unable to obtain a simple blood test to determine whether the elevated levels of rat poison in my blood have subsided, because the people at the anticoagulation clinic were, let’s just say, uncompassionate. I was denied a test this morning despite a referral I was told they required. We never even got to the point where the receptionist listened to me explain today is the last day of my current insurance coverage and I haven’t had confirmation of my new local insurance. Nope, even if you’re bleeding from your eyes.

I thought this was the season of peace and joy, asshole. Guess you don’t have that season in this latitude. Before walking away in disgust, I said why don’t you just tell me “I am not the little prick you are looking for”?

Aaaaarrrrghh!

“I like seasons.”
A tourist from Idaho visiting The Garden in March

I volunteer in a local public garden, spending one morning a week engaging the squirrels and rabbits in battles over doomed vegetables. When I greet visitors on such occasions, as a docent and representative of the Garden, I am polite, informative and a generally all-around nice person.

So, after complimenting me personally on the lovely warm sunny morning I’d arranged for her visit (ha ha), the recent visitor said she’s only in town for a few days visiting family, and then she and her spouse return to Idaho because, and I quote: I like seasons. In my capacity as a docent, I gritted my teeth and laughed at her original little joke as if I’d never heard it before, refrained from whacking her with my pitchfork, and returned to turning the compost pile - perhaps with a bit more vigor than before our brief conversation.

But here’s what I was thinking.

Here’s the thing, you yokel. As a gardener, I actually do notice seasonal change in my climate. Your moronic observation is not only wrong, it assumes we’re all Philistines who take the easy way out and enjoy our perfect Eden in our perfect and unchanging climate, while you and your hardy brethren build character and muscles “enjoying” your fancy-schmancy real seasons up there in Idaho.

We have seasons, sister. The thing is, our seasons might be a bit too subtle for you. Our winter doesn’t reach through the storm windows and shake you by the neck this time of year. We don’t carry umbrellas nine months a year; we don’t shovel snow or rake leaves; or undertake other endless seasonal chores to magically improve our bodies and minds struggling through changing seasons.

People like you who expect the seasons to smack them in the face with a different collection of sights, sounds, smells every few months might not notice our seasons. Our autumn doesn’t announce itself by causing the entire landscape to turn gaudy shades of red and yellow before curling up, turning brown, and falling off the trees and bushes. Our spring doesn’t knock us over with a riot of color as everything awakens from hibernation and blooms in the same ten minutes, making sales of benedril spike. Our summer isn’t damp and moldy with 95% humidity, when your sweat makes you stick to your sheets as you toss and turn through the night, swatting mosquitoes you hope don’t infect you with exotic diseases. And yes, we don’t shovel snow or slide into each other like bumper cars on ice every winter.

In winter here, many of the Southern Hemisphere Mediterranean climate natives - like grevallia (pictured here) and gum trees - bloom at the same time their relatives are blooming in the Australian summer. As a tourist from Idaho, you probably didn’t notice that spring is coming. It’s not here yet, but the orange blossoms on the orange tree in my front yard will knock you out if you approach closer than about ten steps. The air is warmer, not as dry as later in the summer, and filled with mysterious promise and new scents as winter departs and spring approaches. In autumn, the summer population of birds departs and we hear the flocks of wild parrots yammering overhead as they move farther south.

In winter we have to wear sweaters some mornings, and we greet the rain with joy and abandon. Unlike the summer rain of my childhood in a “real” climate, when we put on our bathing suits and cavorted in the street, rain here is cold and discourages fun. When my daughter was young, we’d put on our boots and raincoats in the first rain, and walk to the top of a nearby street and make little rafts out of eucalyptus leaves and twigs and sail them down the gutter. Then we’d come home and drink hot chocolate – celebrating the seasonal change that you might have missed because you were too busy disparaging our climate simply because it’s a bit different from yours.

There. That feels better.