I live in a state where, when December hits, it’s still warm enough to go hiking in shorts. Where green grass is perennial (okay, it turns brown in the summer) and it is possible to get a tanline before Thanksgiving dinner.
So even though we don’t get white Christmases, the seasons are still lovely. Hell, I LIKE the fact that “winter clothing” means “probably not flip flops” (I wear them anyways, puddles be damned). Leaves change colors, the air gets crisp and cool and our dogs find pieces of decomposing deer to chew on during our walks.
Blackie found not one, not two but THREE deer legs on this trek. Each time went something like this:
“Blackie, bring the stick here!”
“That’s not a stick. It has a hoof.”
“Oh. Blackie, go away.”
Northern California in the fall means green grass poking up through summer’s dried out weeds.
And Liquid Ambers turning a riot of colors.
And staring at the asses of my family during our no-one-wants-to-sit-in-front-of-a-stove-all-day-anyways Thanksgiving hike.
And wishing I was small and cute enough to clamber onto a sign post like my cousin.