Out of the Blue

The seasons — and their respective colors — have long influenced my life.

Unlike most Americans, spring is not my favorite. I love daffodils, tulips, iris, budding trees. The birds I fed all winter have a spring in their chirp, now that plump bugs replace their diet of sunflower seeds and peanut butter sandwiches. But spring spreads an ominous prescience: summer. Muggy heat, damaging storms, huge electric bills, mosquitoes, hay fever.

Summer belongs at the ocean, with a cool breeze and water lapping my feet. Summer thrives at the farmstand, where the farmer’s daughter sells prize tomatoes and hours-old corn, blueberries begging pie crust, fragrant melons.

Anywhere else summer, in my book, is to be endured, nothing more.

Color summer fiery orange from sun-up to sunset.

September is a pass-through. Color it undecided.

Then comes October, which I adore. It is the yellow month, when trees positively glow. Early October offers a delicious chill tamed by fleece or corduroy.

Coffee smells and tastes better on an October morn, ditto eggs and bacon, shunned during summer. True, the sun is noticeably lower, the days shorter. But October offers renewed energy, football, cider doughnuts, long walks, a comfy month despite looming November.

Well, nothing good lasts forever.

Paint November a dreary khaki. The sky is gray, the air damp. Once-fiery leaves turn crinkled and brownish, like cornflakes. They fall and must be raked. Coats appear, although Southerners resist winter wardrobes, preferring to scurry from car to office or store in shirtsleeves. For me, November’s redeeming icon is cornbread turkey stuffing, perfumed with sage from the patio herb pot.

December has to be red and green and sparkly silver, representing holidays meant to cheer, affirm, inspire, this year challenged by worldwide messes and climate change. Will there be frost . . . or dandelions? A roast of beef or ribs on the grill?

January, definitely blue and white — the cold colors. After living most of my life far north I’ll never get used to a warmish January. I still crave soup and stew, strong tea spiked with a drop of brandy, a real fire in the fireplace. I want twinkling stars against a velvet sky, icicles on the lilac bush, enough snow to mask the dirt, and never mind if rosy-cheeked kids track it inside on their boots.

February is pink and strewn with holidays, most boasting a celebratory food, from decadent Valentine chocolate to heart-month healthy kale. The days stretch longer. Winter grows tired, soggy. Around here you can almost feel the trees shoring up strength to bud, then blossom.

March could be anything, a blizzard or a heat wave to confuse wildlife. April is spring fashion month — the good, the bad, the laughable. Will jeans continue to widen or remain stovepipe? Will the middle-part hairstyle (think Mona Lisa with a much-needed shampoo) have survived winter? Will the fellas on TV still wear running shoes with business suits?

I’ll give April purple, a color with limited applications. I don’t see many purple sofas or jackets. Maybe a blouse or two. Or a tie, if the gentleman dares.

Summer commences in May, stretches on and on. To which I will raise a drippy cone of black raspberry or peach and be thankful that, eventually, October will return.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.