Bug and I were walking at the lake when an oak limb almost poked out my eye. Stepping back to avoid a twig through my cornea, I noticed that the branches of this particular tree were full of nearly mature acorns. Elementary school bulletin boards have seared acorns into my brain as the symbol for fall. Sure, my teachers also included borders made of red and orange leaves, but those had little meaning as here in Florida leaves just turn brown and fall off, sometimes not until spring. My calendar had noted the passing of the autumnal equinox last Thursday, but with weeks upon weeks of 90+ degree weather and a five-day forecast of nothing but the same, I hadn't registered a seasonal change.
People always complain that Florida doesn't have seasons. True, no chorus of maple and birch shout with color to indicate fall. No snow-spitting skies announce winter's arrival. Palms trees don't bud in ways anyone notices, and the thermometer sings 90 degrees as easily in December as it does in August. Still, a careful observer can catch the hand-off from one season to the next—it's just that Florida seasons don't paint the sentimental pictures that typically grace the front of Hallmark cards.
The honks of migrating geese might be the sound that a Northerner associates with fall. But for many years, I anticipated silent dishes asleep in the kitchen cabinets. Once the humidity began to drop in October, I could quiet my rumbling air conditioner, an old wall unit that shook the entire house when the compressor kicked on. Fall meant that the plates and bowls quit rattling their complaints from the shelves. Now that I have central air, I still wait for fall to announce its arrival by sound: pops and crunches beneath the car tires as I turn onto my oak-lined street and begin crushing the acorns that litter the road and my driveway. And I have visual cues as well. Instead of gaudy trees aflame with color, I enjoy a dose of television news with an emphasis on a map of Central Florida, no more wide angle shots that include the coast of Africa catapulting tropical waves in our direction, no more hurricanes pinwheeling in the Atlantic with projected paths through downtown Orlando.
Winter is even more subtle than fall. When I arrive home in the afternoon, I discover that the little lizards have disappeared from the front walk; hibernating, they no longer make their mad dash for cover through the now crunchy plants. I know that the temperature might actually drop into the forties when I can buy a Krispy Kreme donut and my teeth shatter the glaze into sugar shards as if I had bitten a pane of thin glass. For all other seasons of the year, Krispy Kreme donuts are slimy, slipping through my fingers with each bite, as the high humidity melts the glaze.
Spring arrives with equal parts death and birth. Florida oaks lose their leaves in the spring, a blizzard of brown that blankets the lawns, sidewalks, and streets. The dead leaves threaten to suffocate the grass that is preparing to shoot up five or more inches every week. I always spend spring break raking—sneezing and choking from the oak pollen that falls immediately after the leaves—instead of walking on the beach, the cliché. The citrus trees bloom, perfuming the still dry air, and all of the dead gray-green of winter brightens to a week or two of brilliant emerald punctuated with azeala pinks before summer heat dulls the green several shades.
Florida spring is the shortest lived of the seasons. For me, doughnuts once more whisper the arrival of summer. One morning I will catch the sugar on a Bavarian creme clinging to the pastry instead of dusting my fingers, chin, and shirt front as it has since November. Gooey powdered sugar heralds the return of the high humidity that accompanies summer. Message received, I know I will soon hear the buzzing of the first mosquito and wonder how many more D batteries I will need for the approaching hurricane season.
For me, seasons in other parts of the country are loud mouths, trumpeting their over-the-top arrival. Even though I can wear shorts during Christmas break, Florida has seasons too, with clear demarcations—just not the kind that have calendar photographs devoted to them.
