John Grey

Moving to the West Coast

In southern California, there is no season worthy of its name. Winter, spring, etc. still show up on the calendar, but not in the air, not in the landscape, and barely in the clothes I wear. I keep forgetting what the months are for. April showers? Forget it. It’s one long dry April Fools’ Day. The pastel colors of October? Not if eucalyptus trees have anything to do with it. The climate’s causing havoc with my memories. Did snowflakes really glide down window panes? Did robins time their arrival to the opening of the buds? There are no more freezing birthdays. No more blossom anniversaries. Time still passes but its New England clock is no longer ticking. There’s no sudden June cry of “Surf’s up.” No after-Christmas urge to hibernate. There’s not even Christmas. Just fake Santas, fiberglass reindeer and cookouts. Sure, my life is no longer ruled by the Weather Channel. And I can bicycle in February in tee-shirt and shorts. But people tell me all the time, “I bet you don’t miss the snow.” That’s another thing about living here. I let people speak for me.

John Grey