The ever-changing seasons of our lives

One day a couple of weeks ago, it was grey and wet and blustery. (Please, O Mighty Editors, leave in the Brit spelling of "grey" instead of "gray." Grey is the wild heath in winter and gray is the color of government-issued metal desks.) I was driving the boys to school and said, "It's a Novembery day."

"Novembery?" sputtered my 10-year-old Mr. Literal. "It's October!"

Ah, but October is crisp, dry air and brilliant blue skies, bordered with the cold orange and yellow flames of maples and poplars. At least, it's supposed to be. This year, October wavered between April (warm and constantly rainy) and November (cold and constantly rainy.) I think we only got two or three pure October days out of the whole month.

We've been cheated. I demand from the powers that be that we get a long Indian Summer in November, with clear skies and 70 degree days, and if they're really feeling powerful, they can make my next-door-neighbor's lawn mower break down until June. Or July. Snow is the only thing that keeps this man from mowing his lawn twice every weekend. At night.

I have a love-hate relationship with the fall. I love the crisp air, but I hate being cold. I love the glorious fall colors, but I hate the bare branches that follow. I love the excitement that builds in the air in the autumn, a sense of expectation, but I hate the hassle and haste of the holidays that follow. I love being able to wear my sweaters -- but I hate having to.

Do you remember when the big fashion trend was determining what "season" you were? According to my chart, I was an "Autumn" and looked best in the russets and golds and dark greens than I would in the pastels of a "Spring." Colorwise, that might be accurate, but that's the only way it is. I am a Summer, true blue and to the bone. I love hot weather, I love camping, I love slipping into a cool pool on a blistering day, and I love the sun.

Spring is enjoyable, but it's a tease, promising warm weather one day, then dropping the thermometer 20 degrees over one wet weekend and taking it all away again. Fall is more like an indulgent parent, saying, "No, dear, fall is here, you have to dress warmly now. Oh, okay, one more hot day -- but just one, do you understand? Okay, maybe two ..."

And winter? What I have to say about winter isn't fit to print. I'll put it this way -- when I win the lottery, ski trips and Alaskan cruises will not be on the bucket list. Part of this is because I simply hate being cold, and part of it is because of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Yes, I'm a SAD soul and get the winter blues in doses that beg for pharmaceutical assistance that I have to turn down. I'm also one of those lucky 2-percenters who only gets more depressed after taking anti-depressants.

I keep asking my doctor to prescribe the Bahamas, but he insists the insurance won't pay for it.

My guys all have their own seasons, too, but it's funny how they change over the years. Terry, my husband, used to be a Spring. He reminded me of a racehorse in the starting gate, jittery and jumpy and ready to run as soon as he knew the last frost was over and he could start putting the flowers out. But he's gotten older, and kneeling in the dirt has grown less appealing, he's become a summer, which works out well for our marriage, if not for our garden.

Scott, the oldest, is an unabashed Fall and always has been, probably always will be. He's a laid back kid who starts every e-mail and phone call with, "Heeey, Mom." (And usually follows that with an "I need ...") But autumn energizes him and he goes from his sleepy, genial bear persona to the restless, must gather food before hibernating bear persona. He is the only child in my family for a million generations back who claims to love cold weather and if he didn't look so much like me, I'd have demanded a DNA test the first time he said it.

Ben is another Spring -- there is spring in his step, there is optimism breaking out all over, and love is always in bloom. The world is a budding flower for my middle son and he's ready to pick the bouquet, as long as he doesn't have to get too hot doing it. If it weren't for band camp forcing his skinny, pale body into the out of doors, he would finish August the way he began April -- whiter than his brand new sneakers.

Buzz, of course, is a child of the moment, a kid for all seasons. It doesn't matter what season it is, Buzz loves it. Almost every Sunday night, after the baths are done and bed is ready and another week of school days are ahead of him, he almost always proclaims, "This was the best weekend ever."

One weekend, we spent camping and it rained. And rained. And rained. For about 10 minutes, it even hailed. We wrung out the sleeping bags, hung the tents over the front porch to drain and dragged our shriveled, snivelling, frozen bodies inside the house.

"Did you see the lightning?" Buzz asked as he bounced past our dragging bodies. "That was cool. This was the best weekend ever!"

-- Mary Reeves is a staff-writer for the Times-Gazette.