the lost man chronicles
dreaming of the golden state in the midst of the garden (state)
It is quite invigorating to walk about and BREATHE in this weather. Properly dressed any plebeian or pedestrian can be as equally blessed by the experience which is the majesty of these mornings. At 55 degrees the cool air charges your hands and face with just enough chill that the cutaneous thrill is almost warm in the way it relaxes.
California winters are just like this. And oh how I miss the element of the motherland. Upon reflection, the temperate and grand weather also consists of dry-heat summers and awfully-pleasant Springs to complement the Fall. Overall, the contemplation of the year often brings about my greatest yearning.
When I reminisce about growing up in the Northern half of the Sunshine State I blissfully recall cool foggy mornings walking to elementary school, high school days when I could go out for a run without a care to the best time of day, and the clarity and carefree way that the spirit of the air carried my thoughts, instilling me with energy which I took for granted until I moved away and off to the East Coast.
Oh, there are those who boast "but, I like the (visible, and sometimes miserable) change of seasons." Yet, having lived here now for a third of my lifetime, I intimately know the reasons for lauding these transitions are not all they are purported to be.
Perhaps, for a few wonderful weeks over the course of the year during the first few weeks of Spring and Fall, and of course when the falling leaves call for us to take a drive though the countryside, the climate on the Eastern seaboard is indeed enchanting.
Oh, yes, and then there is the snow too, granting those who are inclined to play to bring out the sleigh, the sled, the skis and casually skoot about upon the pure reflection of the sun. But then, eventually you have to shovel it, trudge through it everyday on the way to work.
At first, my inaugural winter wonderland in Central Park was utterly amazing—I skipped classes that day to revel in this incredible first day of snow, but little did I know that the extent of its charm was not everlasting.
I met Manhattan when September blossoms
smiled in the islands of trees
barely-clad coeds crossed the campus
holding hands, chatting carelessly.
October came and it felt much the same
till a cool chill crawled up my back,
then it occurred to me that the frosty wind
was the winter forming its frontal attack.
At Hallow's break into November morning
a full moon shone bright and gay,
the crisp Fall air ushered the warning
that a bitter snow was on its way.
But the white blanket was held at bay
till that fattening time of year,
when students return home for the holidays
to dust off their snow boots and skiing gear
Alas, it was not until December
when Central Park became a winter wonderland
that i wrapped myself like a bear, believing
the professors would just have to understand.
I cut class that day, not for insolence,
but simply because I was a California boy,
and since this would be my very first snowday
I had to play and experience it in overjoy.
In Northern California, some of the most splendid snowfalls are but a few hours away atop the hills of Lake Tahoe and in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado where skiing is truly Heavenly. By comparison, all Vermont has to offer is ice.
Of course, I'm not being very nice to the place I've now called home for a dozen years, but who cares? Because sometimes it is best to just be completely honest. This is just how I feel, because, as you may be equally as tortured and fortunate to know, the weather in the Golden State can be simply surreal sometimes.
And upon reflection, amidst this predilection of a morning pine, I am also apt to stake the claim that, at least for today, the climate is quite sublime.