Tulip.
“My name is Allison MacKenzie. Where I was born, time was told not by the clock or the calendar, but by the seasons. Summer was carefree contentment. Autumn was that bittersweet time of regret for moments that had ended and things that were yet undone. And then winter fell, with a cold mantle of caution and chill, it nipped our noses and our arrogance and made us move closer to the warm stoves of memory and desire. Spring was promise. But there was a fifth season, of love. And only the wise or the lucky ones new where to find it.”
This is the opening monologue from the film Peyton Place. It’s here because a few weeks ago a reader, Camille, commented on an earlier post entitled Autumn In Peyton Place. She had been searching for the verse and could I help her. I popped in the DVD and took some dictation.
But after I read over the words, it occurred to me that if only seasons could be so easy and uncomplicated that their description could fit into a single — albeit melodramatic — paragraph. If only . . .
Because lately, it seems, seasons are not so neat and tidy. This spring, for example, has been one of the coolest — make that coldest — and dampest ones that I can remember. Even this Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial start of summer, had snow falling in upstate New York.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 