Falling Back, 13. The Changing of the Guard

Today, it's been a dull, grey day, with drizzle just about all day. It's not been cold, but cool enough that I had to put on socks. Summer is definitely over.

It was a decent enough summer in this little corner, at least after the rainy and cool month of June ended. There were some hot days, but we were lucky in that they didn't stretch out into obnoxious heat waves. 

I've always preferred late spring and early summer. The days are at their longest, and the promise of summer can be tasted in the honey air. The weather is warm, sometimes too much, but mostly just warm. Everything is flowering or has buds. 

I prefer these seasons here in Galicia to the same ones in Boston. They were my favorite then, too, but too short. Spring didn't properly appear until May, and then, rain often marred the growing days. After the middle of June, summer kicked in. The worst part of summer in Boston was when WCVB's Dick Albert announced the three H's in his forecast. When I saw HHH, I knew I was going to suffer in the hazy, hot, and humid weather approaching. We lived on the top floor of a triple decker, right under the hot pitch roof, and nights during a heatwave were not nice. All the windows open, and even so I would sleep across the bed, to catch any incipient breeze. A few times, I slept on the porch, on the folding chaise longue we had bought to take to the beach. 

But there were beautiful summer days, too, when the heat didn't beat down, and it was a joy to be out and about. Those were days that lasted forever, and everything was right with the world. Summer ended in the middle of September, though. There was maybe a week into the new school year in which we suffered because of not being able to wear shorts to class. After that, we were glad to wear long pants and a sweater and jacket. The riot of color in the leaves was the best part of fall, though I was always sad to say goodbye to the warm weather and the longer days. Here, fall is much like today was; fading greens with cooler temperatures, and wet weather. 

And it simply develops into shorter days, with colder weather, though never very cold, except for some nights and mornings. The rain storms also tend to batter us in winter. Sometimes we have whole weeks in which we don't see the sun, and feel like we're going to grow gills. Sometimes, cold air from the interior of the continent, right from Russia, makes its way over the Pyrenees. But that only promises snow to the rest of northern Spain, and the higher altitudes of the Mediterranean. We might get snow after a storm passes through, and brings frozen moisture down from the Arctic. But it generally falls only in the interior mountains and hills, and taunts us down by the coast. All we tend to get from that are nights that fall below freezing and mornings when you don't want to put your nose out of the bed covers. 

The snow is what I loved about winter. I didn't ever really like anything else. I've always hated the cold. The snow was what made everything like a magical fairy tale. Whenever snow was forecast in Boston, I was overjoyed. And then, I was disappointed when in the western suburbs they got a foot of snow, but the city only saw two inches. I wanted snow, snow, snow, to crush with my boots, and to push through, and to make snowballs, and pretend a battle with the bushes by the front steps while my father shoveled. 

Spring here at least comes earlier than it does in Boston. By February some trees are showing buds, and some flowers, such as camellias, are blooming. Leaves come out in late March, depending on the year, and by mid-April the woods are a medley of greens. Each species of tree has its own green, and none are alike. There are bronzes, apple-greens, lime-greens, dusty greens. Day by day they strengthen until summer is here again, the best time of the year.

Life continues.