The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Lost Seasons
When my brother ventured to California for the first time to visit me, he just could not get used to the continually perfect weather. Each morning he marveled over it. I, on the other hand, quickly adjusted when we moved West five years ago and was only too happy to donate my heavy, itchy turtleneck sweaters in favor of winter clothes that would not survive October in upstate New York.
However, now that I am a mother, I find myself nostalgic on my son’s behalf for the blustery autumns, winters and even springs of my childhood. Many of my fondest memories involve jumping with my brother into giant piles of spectacularly colored leaves, freshly raked by my father. I tried to explain the joy and beauty of these autumns to my Oregon-born husband, but he laughingly reassured me that there are “colored leaves” on the West Coast too. It was not until I took him to meet my grandmother in Vermont in mid-October one year that he truly understood the difference.
In the Northeast, autumn’s leaves soon give way to the powdery snowflakes of early winter. It is amazing that entire years go by now without this sight. My first non-white Christmas was undeniably dreary, with the gray Oregon rain pounding down on the matted green grass of my mother-in-law’s lawn. I thought back on the many winters of sledding and building snowmen and snow forts with my father and brother. Of course, the best part was making and eating snow candy with my mother. I cannot help but be sad that my son will not experience these things as a regular part of his childhood. Here, one season flows into the next with such subtlety that you could easily forget what month it is. A trip to Lake Tahoe to “visit” the snow is just not the same as when it falls unbidden into your own backyard.
Sometimes I feel that I owe it to my son to live where he can experience the true seasons of my childhood. That is, until I must grudgingly acknowledge the accompanying black ice, freezing rain and dirty snow that hangs around until April. And of course, those heavy, itchy turtleneck sweaters.
By: Rebecca Jackson
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However, now that I am a mother, I find myself nostalgic on my son’s behalf for the blustery autumns, winters and even springs of my childhood. Many of my fondest memories involve jumping with my brother into giant piles of spectacularly colored leaves, freshly raked by my father. I tried to explain the joy and beauty of these autumns to my Oregon-born husband, but he laughingly reassured me that there are “colored leaves” on the West Coast too. It was not until I took him to meet my grandmother in Vermont in mid-October one year that he truly understood the difference.
In the Northeast, autumn’s leaves soon give way to the powdery snowflakes of early winter. It is amazing that entire years go by now without this sight. My first non-white Christmas was undeniably dreary, with the gray Oregon rain pounding down on the matted green grass of my mother-in-law’s lawn. I thought back on the many winters of sledding and building snowmen and snow forts with my father and brother. Of course, the best part was making and eating snow candy with my mother. I cannot help but be sad that my son will not experience these things as a regular part of his childhood. Here, one season flows into the next with such subtlety that you could easily forget what month it is. A trip to Lake Tahoe to “visit” the snow is just not the same as when it falls unbidden into your own backyard.
Sometimes I feel that I owe it to my son to live where he can experience the true seasons of my childhood. That is, until I must grudgingly acknowledge the accompanying black ice, freezing rain and dirty snow that hangs around until April. And of course, those heavy, itchy turtleneck sweaters.
By: Rebecca Jackson
.
Labels: By Rebecca Jackson
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