Revisiting 'The Four Seasons' via Iowa

Most of us have long waited for this time of year, when the warm glow of sunlight fills our rooms during the easy pace of a summer morning. A sense of freedom overcomes us, and tossing on sandals, shorts and cut-off tees, we head outside. There's a jangle in the air as the breeze rustles across the trees.

The day shines with green - lush grasses, trees and shrubs filled out with leaves, the larkspur and pink roses abloom - as we walk along the nearby stream. The corn's long leaves cover a neighboring field, and dragonflies dodge about. We pause at a bank along the stream, dip our feet into cool water, gorge ourselves on wild berries picked along the way.

The noon sun bequeaths us warm tanned skin. There is no sign of a summer storm approaching, no threatening west wind, and so we sway slowly in a hammock under the shade of tall oak trees, a fat novel in our hands. The distant whack of a bat against a ball and the sudden excited cheers as children urge their teammate around the bases punctuates our reading. Then quiet returns in ever-longer pauses. The scent of cucumbers and melon fill the air. We fall asleep.

Hours later, we awake to crickets chirping, the stars above us like Italian lights festooned upon a ceiling. In the lazy heat, we believe summer will last forever.

•••

Many of us most wish for summer during January's dark hours, when the lack of light compresses our days. Awakening, a shiver overcomes us; time to turn the heat up despite the bills. It'll only be for a few moments as we slip on thick Fair Isle crew socks, jeans, sweaters and heavy coats. No more than a few steps outside, we sniffle as our noses drip.

The clouds hang dense and white, as if snow cap-ped mounds were turned upside down and placed in the sky. Naked trees dot the landscape; a few stalks of yellowed corn still stand in the fields. A cardinal lands upon the snow, its red cheer breaking the dreariness. But even that must pass, and it's back to icicles upon everything that is man-made - the metal of a drain pipe, a street sign, a mailbox. We ignore them as the icy path requires concentration lest we trip and fall.

There is no time to stop; in the cold everything is far away, and the fingers are growing numb. The weatherman spoke of a blizzard covering half of Nebraska heading our way. The trees where our hammock once hung now helps prop up a snow fence; if we are to read books, it must be inside, out of the ground's bright glare and the freezing wind. A gaggle of children pass, kicking snow; dressed in snow pants and down coat, they look like they're in radiation suits. We stamp our feet to stay warm.

Once finally home, the heat warms our hands as we pull off our scarves. Snow has crystallized on the window, acts as a wall. You check the calendar; this cold can't last forever.

•••

Mother Nature does provide us with fair warning of winter. In autumn, the morning sun weakens, casts a light the color of white wine. Outside, the mix of yellow and green leaves shifts day by day to barn red and hunter orange. We might start the day off in shorts and T-shirt, only to see wind pick up and turn the air cold. Despite the gusts blowing leaves in short bursts, we gamble on warmth.

Golden September has decorated our landscape with color as dry leaves crunch under our feet. We spy migrating birds feeding on black-eyed Susans. In the fields beyond, farmers run a combine through the rows, shearing each corn stalk from the Earth. Geese squawk overhead - are they the same geese we saw last autumn when walking this path? They pass, and we cross the knoll that rises above the stream, whose water is too cool now for even dipping one's feet. The scent of orange cloves and cider floats upon the air.

We're glad we each tied a sweatshirt around our waists as the sky above has grayed. "It'll be cold enough tonight for frost," you remark. The grass between the trees where our hammock still hangs has turned brittle, and I nod, wondering how many of our autumns have been filled with schoolbooks and missed afternoons outdoors. The "hut-hut" of a touch football game children at the park have started echoes across the horizon. The dry and whispery autumn leaves swirl, sound like a gourd rattle.

We pause on a bench, hands tucked under our sweatshirts, refusing to let summer go. A woman in an oversized plaid blazer, lugging a basket of orchard apples, passes with her toddler, who presses an oversized pumpkin to his chest. All the world is aging.

•••

Winter yields reluctantly to spring. When the youthful season does arrive, we awake with a yearning, the blue skies outside beckoning. We're smart enough to stay in jeans but don short-sleeved cotton sweaters, ready to believe that the winter coat finally can be stored away. Once out the door, the first gentle breeze does not disappoint.

Vivaldi was right; spring is a pastoral dance, for as the weather warms, the pace quickens. Walking, we sense the hidden life beneath the flattened grass; for now, the apple and magnolia blossoms are enough to delight. The farmer has turned the black furrows of last year's cornfield for a new season, and the returning birds celebrate their homecoming with a carnival of chatter. Streams murmur once more from the melt off. "Maybe it'll get warm enough for ice cream," you say.

With the snow gone and the flora only coming out of dormancy, the Iowa plain is open wide. Spring showers predicted for later today, I note, but for now, though, there's only an ever-strengthening sun. The buds are opening on the oaks, you say, then spy a robin's nest in one of the branches. You're thinking of picking up that book of poetry left unread all winter. Ahead of us, children deliberately jump into puddles, spraying water across the path. There's an earthy moistness in the air, a scent that winter's snow and summer's growth always locks away.

Passing a bench, we keep walking. Our legs are tired after a winter of being cooped up, but the walk feels good on the lungs. At the pond, the fountain has been turned back on, and a sense that all which was gone will come alive again fills us.

It is spring, and Death has become a beggar.

(originally published July 11, 2004)