Last withered apple on a high branch, the tree drops its leaves.
Acorns and dry leaves litter the ground under the live oak.
The wildlife comes to forage: deer, squirrels, turkeys, towhee.
In high foliage, jays and crows argue raucously.

The sun sets early, its last rays light the supper table.
Dark settles, the air grows cold, outdoors all is quiet.
Hour earlier, we turn on the lamp above the table
And we sit quietly in companionable silence.

I arise, reluctant, a half hour late, but before dawn,
Walking along the dark street, the early wildlife greets me:
A two-pronged buck stands its ground, watching,
More worrisome, to a white and black skunk I give wide berth.
Songbirds awaken with soft musical morning greetings.

​Golden Autumn, last bright colors, has fled,
​Cold white gray Winter enters in its stead.

Thanksgiving

​Watch the news and see
Inhumanity
People huddled around
A meager fire, spooning
A small cup of soup, 
Their bombed apartment
In shambles behind.

In desert land, sand,
No green to be seen,
Children suckle at 
Withered breasts,
Mothers offer their souls,
Nothing else is left.

Soldiers, men young and old,
Huddle in foxholes, 
Bravery laced with fear,
Dream and long for home.

Homeless sleep under
Cardboard box shelter,
Resigned to the cold
Hard pavement sidewalk.

Then turn off the TV
To gather and eat
Thanksgiving dinner.
Give thanks for the bounty,
Feel guilt for the meal
That would feed a village,
But also gratitude
For having plenty,
For family and friends,
Untouched by cruel war,
For peace and safety,
Hopefully to last.
And then vow to give
More generously, 
Next you are bidden. 

The poets wish you and yours a happy Thanksgiving filled with good food, good company, peace and goodwill. 

                                                         Summer’s End 
 
 
                                  The summer ended in  September blaze.   
                                  The leaves changed color under hot sun’s rays
                                 The Autumn wind blew them to the parched ground                                 
                                 Then swirled them up again, up and around.                                                            
            
                                 A blinding  sun burned in cerulean sky. 
                                 An east  wind swept in fiercely, hot and dry,
                                 As the last apple dropped down off its tree,  
                                 I saw pears ready to pick above me                                         
 
                                 The acorns brought the squirrels, the  jay, the crow
                                 The doe with speckled fawns who browsed  below.
                                 They all came to partake, calmly in peace,
                                 And giving their thanks to the oak, to feast.  
                                                                                                 
                                 Then just in time there came the winter rain,
                                 And parched brown earth soon  sprang to life again. 

​                                                                                                                -MW 

       Summer’s End
 
            They stored the lawn chairs, kiddie pool and barbecue.
            Then ate a last burger on the patio.
            While the children, popsicles dripping down chins,
            Chased fireflies on the lawn damp with evening  dew,
            The elders sat on the screened porch, rocking, talking, then telling stories
            When the children, tired, came to laps to rest.
 
            They went inside to bed, the windows open wide, for the heat lingered,
            But they slept long, as the sun was late to rise.
            And when they finally awakened, they felt a new coolness in the air,
            Smelled chimney smoke, heard migrating geese calling,
            Saw white frost dampening the fallen Autumn leaves, scarecrows on porches,         
            And they knew Autumn had arrived

-MW

 
In Autumn I think
Of my mother:
Born in September,
Lived in New Hampshire,
Land of red and yellow maple leaves,
Of maple syrup, you gathered
Blueberries in the woods.
As mother, you baked cookies
To put in our  back to school  lunch bag,
Sewed Halloween costumes for whatever
Crazy ideas your kids had: witch, Statue of Liberty,
 panther, tooth, Pied Piper,
(but Dad took us out to trick or treat)
Taught me how to wax leaves
To preserve them for Thanksgiving.
Gave me an empty oatmeal box
So I could make a turkey then
Write a story about it. 
Cooked a full Thanksgiving dinner
That took three days to prepare:
First pies then rolls, then cranberry sauce,
And stuffing, got up early Thanksgiving morning
To stuff the turkey and put it in the oven
Then all day preparing green beans with almonds,
sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and last, the gravy. 
(I set the table, with cornucopia and waxed leaves as centerpiece.)
And you were not done, for after dinner, the dishes 
Had to be washed. But you did it all willingly, lovingly
For your family. 
And then Fall was over
But Christmas  and Winter
were fast approaching

​MW

Wisdom from a 100 year old:

The old slip into somber silence, as a once familiar world slips rapidly away.

It is only the moment that is of moment, all else is memory and speculation.

A culture in twilight is a game without fixed rules.

​Life is its own purpose.


Píccola says, "Leave me alone. I'm sleeping."
​

All photos except as noted were taken by MW. Photos,poems and music  are the property of MW. 

                                                           The Game Players
 
Act I-
 
The game players have gathered around the Game Master to give their reports and get their next assignment. They are serious, somber, and silent.
 
Master: Greetings, All. I have called you together today to review what has been done, to analyze the results, and to discuss our next moves, in this Game called Life on Earth. At the last meeting, we discussed the turmoil on Earth and came up with a plan to try to counter it. I look forward to your reports. Player 1?
 
P1: Master, first I must say that there is still turmoil. You will recall that we decided to give the Earthlings a challenge to divert them and try to redirect them to helping each other instead of fighting. We introduced a clown into their election. As a joke. But many people embraced this clown and he was elected. 
 
Master: But he could not do much harm as a clown leader. 
 
P1: On the contrary, he tried to dismantle the democracy of his nation. And other leaders followed suit. So that there was danger of autocracy in many places of the world. 
 
P2: Fortunately, enough people saw reason and voted him out. There was still hope. But the country was seriously divided after this. There was no longer compromise as in the past but bitter acrimony and name calling. 
 
Master: Well, we all learn from our mistakes. At least the outcome was somewhat acceptable. Hopefully, the reasonable people will prevail. Did you come up with another plan then?
 
 
P3: Yes, we decided to come up with something worldwide that would unite the people in a common cause.   In this, we succeeded to some extent. We injected a dangerous virus into their environs. Many became sick, but the researchers immediately started investigating cures and the health officials imposed mandates for people to follow to keep the virus at bay. Player 2 can comment more on that.
 
P2: Yes, I was among the people. Most of them followed the mandates and the virus was contained. The doctors and nurses worked valiantly to cure those who contracted the virus.  Countries worked across borders. And the virus was kept at bay. It could have been much worse.
 
P3: May I interject? Not all  followed the mandates. The doctors’ advice became a political football. The researchers developed vaccines that worked, but some were suspicious. And they developed an effective medicine but it was in short supply so they had to ration it. People began to take sides and sling insults at each other. So the threat of the virus did not bring everyone together in one common goal as we had hoped. 
 
P4: Still, it did bring the world together. Everyone was in the same boat, all were fighting the same disease and all were aware of each other’s plight. There was a common enemy. Nations shared information and vaccines. 
 
P3: But some had the means to fight it and others did not. The vaccinations did not get to the poor countries, the poor could not get proper health care, and people fought over who should get the medicine. The drug companies got richer and food became scarce or too expensive for many to afford. 
 
Master: So there was no movement at all, no steps in the right direction?
 
P2: Perhaps one baby step? We can hope. So we tried something else. 
 
Master: And what was that?
 
P1: We introduced a war. We convinced a leader of one nation to invade the neighboring nation.
 
Master: And the result?
 
P1: Well, the attacked nation rallied, the people united and fought valiantly. The women and children evacuated and the men stayed behind to fight. All were brave and stalwart.
 
P2: Many other countries offered their help. People opened their homes to the refugees. They showed their better side.
 
P3: But the fighting continued and is still raging today. 
 
Master: Do you expect a positive outcome?
 
The four players look at each other then all shake their heads. 
 
Master: Well, then, what is next?
 
Player 1: We have done one more thing. It is a challenge not of our making but created by the humans themselves. But we have made them aware of climate change. Some parts of Earth have floods, others have droughts. There are hurricanes and there is extreme hot weather. 
 
Player2: Again, the scientists are studying what to do and have come up with some solutions. But they might be too late. Time is not on their side. The young people have taken on the challenge and many are working on solutions. People are beginning to conserve their resources. 
 
Player 3: But the big money resists these changes. They claim to be making changes but in reality, they are breaking the rules and finding new ways to line their pockets. 
 
Master: You four have described a dismal situation. Is it time to give up hope on Earth and launch the final asteroid?
 
The players all look at each other and shake their heads.
 
Player 4: Oh no, not yet! 
 
Master: But you seem to say there is no hope. 
 
Player 1: (pensively) I still have hope. As I lived and worked with these people, I saw them work together, play together and help each other. Many cared about the Earth, others cared about the poor people, and still others fought against war. Even those who didn’t think about the entire Earth cared for their own families, their pets, their neighbors and the Nature around them.  They do care and they have hope. They work hard in the face of doom and are resilient So I think we must do the same.
 
Master: Very well. Then you agree to continue your work among them? 
 
The players look at each other and each nods yes in turn.
 
Master: So what is next? Shall we start something new?
 
Player 2: With all due respect, dear Master, I think the people of Earth have enough to deal with at the moment. Let’s continue to watch and see how they deal with the virus, with the wars, and with the climate. Perhaps they will come up with acceptable solutions.
 
Player 1: But what will be our role?
 
Player 2: We can live among them and offer suggestions. We can model such values as caring and compassion. We can help the scientists find solutions. And we can be teachers to the young to help them find paths to solutions. As well as whisper into their ears to never give up hope. 
 
They all nod. 
 
Master: So it is agreed. I thank you all for your service. And wish you good luck. I have always had a fond spot for this planet Earth, so green and blue and full of life. Someday, of course, as all planets, it will disappear, but I would hate to see that happen to Earth so soon. For I too, have hope. These animals called humans are remarkably adaptable, they are intelligent beyond most other animals, they look beyond themselves. They have hope and resilience. Please do what you can to help them find the path to a better future. The master bows with hands before him and turns to leave. 
 
The players all bow back somberly and fade away into the darkness. 
 
MW 6-2022

                                                                      What is Next?

War raged across the land. Tanks rumbled down the roads, across the fields, and stationed themselves to aim a well-plotted missile. And a home was destroyed.
But the birds took to the air and flew off to other trees.
Heat flowed through the city. People sought relief in the shade and children played in fountains. But this only temporarily eased their discomfort. 
The fish swam deeper to cooler waters.
Fire roared through the forest and the little town in its midst. People fled in their cars, taking only their children and pets, leaving behind their houses and belongings. 
The deer and bears ran from the forest fleeing the searing flames. They ran until they came to the river, crossed it and fled up the hill away from the fire. They had no baggage, for they never do. 
There have always been fire, floods and extreme weather. In the past, humans did as the animals do. They left their homes and soon found another. They had no baggage, no ties, no infrastructure. And they soon found another home and continued their lives as before. 
Over time, the humans built houses, then towns. They waged war. Then they  built cities and cathedrals.  They had automobiles that used gas. Their lives became complex. They continued to wage war, but now with weapons of mass destruction. The fires and floods continued but they wreaked much more damage. They disrupted lives much more. 
The humans rose to the occasion and sought solutions. But the solution were as complex as the problems. 
Perhaps a return to the simpler life that had been would be the most reasonable of solutions.
But how does one undo centuries of “civilization”?
Or is the best yet to come?
​Will our complex ingenious inventions make or destroy us?


​-MW
 

Our Oxymoronic Lot

We humans are a wondrous lot,
An oxymoronic combination.

We are body, flesh and bones,
With earthy needs and appetites,
Physical skills and limitations,
And bound by the laws of the actual world.

But minds we are no less than bodies,
Consciousness in a physical world.
Given to the abstract realm of thought,
Of imagination and of emotions,
And bound by neither time nor space.

We have our beings in disparate worlds,
Live simultaneously disparate lives,
Disparate lives inseparately twinded
That grade and complement each other,
And are a challenge to harmonize. 

-JM

And an accomplished life it has been. From a small town in Roumania to Canada to the East Coast of the US to Berkeley, California. From child of a peasant village to immigrant to star pupil to  university professor and renowned author to writer of epigrams par excellence. Today we celebrate a life well lived.

McMaster’s scholarship notwithstanding, to make ends meet,  I took a factory summer  job immediately after graduating from Delta. Factory paid more than farm, enough to tide me over the following schoolyear. I was to continue to work in Hamilton’s Dominion Foundry and Steel Company (Dofasco) as a simple laborer for the next four summers while at McMaster, and yet another summer after my fist year at Harvard.
Laboring in a primitive pre-Second World War steel factory in Hamilton’s hot summer months was sheer torment. The constant din was deafening, the soot-filled air was stifling, and the heart and labor were exhausting. Earplugs were a necessity, salt tablets staved off muscle cramps, and steel-capped boots and steel-laced gloves protected my feet and hands. Shift work did not help matters (7-3, 3-11, 11-7): the factory was as hot during the night as it was during the day, sleep in the heat of day after a night shift was fitful at best, and the weekly change of shifts left my mind and body quite confused. it was a grind, but the income, together with scholarships, made continued study possible.
My four years at McMaster were both rewarding and enjoyable. In 1941, it was still a Baptist college with but forty professors and lecturers and with only some seven hundred students. Everyone at McMaster seemed to have at least a nodding acquaintance with everyone else. On the opening day of the autumn semester, the freshmen gathered in the chapel of the university, were always reminded that they were now young adults, and were expected to dress and deport themselves accordingly. Dress meant suits and ties, and dresses or skirts and stockings. A friendly, British-like formality prevailed. Professors wore their black academic gowns, as did the seniors. And the daily mid-morning chapel service was always well attended by both faculty and students
When it became apparent, at the outset of 1945, that Germany was about to collapse and the war would soon end, I had to make a quick decision. It had been my plan to proceed from McMaster to the Teaching College in Toronto, and from there to highschool teaching. This possibility had lost its attraction. My introduction to the study of literature at McMaster had whetted my appetite for further literary study and study at a good American university could be another exciting adventure. 
My first year in Cambridge and at Harvard was the trying test I suspected it might be. Away from home and friends, on my own in unfamiliar surroundings, rooming in the homes of strangers, and eating three meals a day in cafeterias left me decidedly homesick for more than a month. My transition from a tiny and ordinary McMaster to a colossal and world-renowned Harvard was equally discomforting, but only until I knew my professors and their expectations, and until I had struck up a friendship with a number of classmates.
By the end of my first year in America, I felt quite at home both in Cambridge and at Harvard. I had convinced myself that Harvard’s expectations were not beyond me, had received a Master of Arts, was accepted in the German Department’s doctoral program, and was awarded a teaching fellowship. The future was promising and I was content. The following four years were just demanding of time and effort as the first, but they were thankfully free of my first year’s apprehension.
My last two years at Harvard were the happiest of my five. I left private rooms, cafeterias and seclusion for a graduate dormitory, a graduate dining hall and greater interaction with my fellow students. I had completed my course work and was able to devote most of my time to my doctoral dissertation. Hermann Hesse had attracted my attention when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1947. When I read his startlingly innovative novel, Steppenwolf, I knew immediately that he would be the subject of my dissertation. I submitted the dissertation in early 1950, defended it orally shortly thereafter, and was awarded the doctoral degree that June.
All’s well that ends well! My student trials and tribulations were over and three universities had already offered me an instructorship. In the post Second World War years, student enrollment at colleges and universities burgeoned, faculties had to be expanded, and there was a shortage of Ph.D.s. Doctors of Philosophy had their pick of jobs. I could not have finished my studies at a more appropriate time. Rather than Brown or Northwestern University, I chose the University of California at Berkeley.The salary was acceptable, and the teaching load left ample time for research.  Furthermore, California, the land of sunshine and orange groves appealed to me. I have never regretted the decision!

Most readers will know the rest of the story: 41 successful years at UC Berkeley, as a popular teacher and a world renowned researcher on Hermann Hesse. A marriage and three children. He and Peggy built a house in the Berkeley hills, where he lives to this day. A divorce, the children left home but all live in California, three grandchildren, two of whom live in California. So family is nearby. A companion of over 40 years and numerous pets: cats, dachshunds, German Shepherds and a golden Retriever, and now his beloved dachshund Píccola.
After retirement, he wrote several books about his home town in Roumania and its dialect, then turned to poems and epigrams. His latest book of epigrams was published this year and is available on Amazon: Catchy Thoughts. Indeed a life well lived. And the epigrams just keep coming, albeit a bit more slowly than in the past. 

 25 EPIGRAMS.  (selected from Catchy Thoughts, his latest book of epigrams)

Happiness surfaces with one's unqualified acceptance of self and life.
Let the painful past be, and focus on a better present.
Be what you would be, and take the consequences.
Try to be what you would be if you could be.
Too many talk too much and do too little.
It's better not to do it, if you are likely to rue it.
Don't envy or belittle, admire and emulate.
Every epigram is an essay in the making.
When unfettered capitalism is in, democracy is out
Life is a drama for which there are no rehearsals.
To try is to learn, and to learn is to grow.
It is what it is, and not what you would have it be.
Mutual concessions pave the way to a better relationship.
If intent upon resolving a personal problem, don't argue your cause, describe your plight.
Listen, then reflect before you counter argue.
Master your hypersensitivity or it will master you.
To try is to court failure, not to try is failure.
Wisdom is a state of mind, not a mode of thinking or a thought. 
Every seed is much in little.
Help silently, before help is requested.
To hide your light is to be left in the dark.
Too much potential is never realized.
To tax where there is poverty, is to seed where there is no soil.
To be selfless is to be faceless.
​But for life there would be no death. 

Photos labelled as caps were taken from the osprey cam set up by the Golden Gate Audubon Society. You can access it at sfbayospreys.org.  All such caps are the property of GGAS and cannot be used or altered without its permission. Photos labelled at photos were taken by the person listed and belong to them, with all rights thereof. They gave permission to use the photo.

​Every year, the ospreys return to the Whirley Crane nest and to nests all over the Bay Area. This wasn’t always so, thus we watch with gratitude to those humans who, noticing a fellow being in distress, worked to save it. The ospreys represent the cycle of life, practicing the rituals that comprise a family and a life. The human observers delight in and learn much from these ospreys, who take life as it is, accepting the vagaries of weather, the little annoyances of life, and the larger: a dud egg or a chick’s death. While  we delight in their  daily lives and  their ability to fly above it all.
So this post is dedicated to the ospreys Richmond and Rosie of the Whirley Crane, who bring so much joy, fun and awe to our lives. And to the fun, quirky and multi-talented WWOC.

                                                               I Can Fly!
 
Once there was a boy named Ike who was born with wings. As a baby and young child, he didn’t know he had wings. He only knew there was something attached to his back. He kept them folded and left them alone. 
When the boy entered school, he met other children and made friends. They asked him about his wings and he shrugged. They were just there. His parents had never mentioned them.  But now he was aware of them and began to wonder. So one night when he was alone in his room, he tried unfolding his wings. Ooh, they were big. He looked in the mirror. They were beautiful! But why where they there?
He felt the need to move the wings, so he did. He folded then unfolded them. He moved them up and down a bit. That felt really good. But he heard his mother’s footsteps approaching, so he folded his wings and jumped into bed. 
From then on, the boy kept his wings folded when around other people, but at night he would unfold them and flap them. He felt happy when he did so. One night, as he flapped his wings, he said “I am me!” For indeed, he somehow felt more whole now. But at school, he wanted to fit in, so he kept his wings folded and the other children soon forgot about them. 
Spring came. The mockingbird returned to the bush below the boy’s window. The boy had always loved listening to the bird’s song at night and tried imitating it. He could sing many of the bird’s songs. Now, however, he noticed something else. When it sang, the bird would often flap its wings and hop up and down. 
The boy wondered if he could do that. He stood up on his bed to try flapping his wings. Then he gave a little jump. He fell. Flap then jump. He fell again. He watched the bird carefully and tried to jump and flap just when the bird did.  He lifted into the air!
Every night after that, the boy took lessons from the mockingbird. Soon he could jump and flap to rise in the air above his bed. And every time he did so, he felt a little more proud, as if he had finally discovered his real self.
But one day, the mockingbird flew off. How did the bird do that? Could he learn too? The next day, the boy went into the garden and watched the bird carefully. When it flew, the boy tried to imitate it and yes, he rose into the air and flew a little ways. But he saw the gardener coming towards him, so he quickly folded his wings and pretended to be looking for bugs.
Now the boy had an uncontrollable urge to fly. But he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He wanted to fit in; he didn’t want to be a freak. He didn’t even want to be famous. He just wanted to be an ordinary boy with a family and friends. 
But he also wanted to fly. So he found secret places in the woods, where there was a clearing and he would go there to fly. When vacation began, he went every day to the clearing and practised flying. The other children asked him to play with them, but he was now too busy with his wings. 
One day, it was particularly windy. There was a kite flying contest on the field by the school, but the boy went instead to his secret place to fly. He had no need of a kite. While he was flying, a gust of wind picked him up and carried him with it, all the way to the field on the other side of town. There the townspeople were flying kites of all kinds and colors: box kites, dragon kites, rainbow kites…
“Look at that kite!” one person shouted, pointing up in the sky. “It’s a big bird kite!”
“Wow,” another exclaimed.
“That’s not a bird, that’s my friend,” a boy answered. Hey, Ike, how did you get up there? With your wings?”
“Come down right now!” an official called out. “This is a kite contest not a bird contest.”
Ike reluctantly angled his wings tightly and flew in a circle to land in the middle of the ring of people. They rushed out to him, some laughing, some congratulating him. A few turned away and shunned him. He didn’t care about any of this. He didn’t want to be famous. He looked at his father, who gave him a thumbs up. Then he looked at his best friend, who did the same. Good. He still had his family and friend. That was all that mattered. So, ignoring the official,  he unfolded his wings and took off, shouting, “I can fly.”
And he circled high above the crowd, free from the ground, free from those who would laugh or shun, from those who would be jealous, free just to be himself. 

​-MW

 The Osprey How Graceful

The osprey how graceful,
Magnificent and regal,
As he sits upon his nest
Looking out over the Bay.

His great talons outstretched,
His keen golden eyes searching,
He glides over the blue water,
To search for his fish prey.

And I too, would be
An osprey just as he,
I would fly over the Bay
To catch my own prey.

Alas, I have no wings to fly,
No talons, no eagle eye,
So I will just stay here,
On Earth with you dear.

Rivers. Poems have been written about them and it seems as if every songwriter has written at least one song to rivers. There is something about the presence of water, the never-ending flow that inspires poets and composers alike. And more often than not, they compare the river to our lives, flowing inexorably downward, toward the sea, the water going through grassy valleys, rocky gorges, villages and cities alike. 
Below are a few examples, from others and from the poets themselves.
Píccola will abstain this month, as she has no idea what a river is and was not interested in entering the water the one time she saw the Eel River. 

​                                                                  Life’s River
 
The people stood on the bank of the river. One stepped gingerly into the water, wading until the ground gave way and he had to swim. Another dove into the middle of the stream and swam energetically downriver. Yet another waded in and turned onto her back to float wherever the current would lead her. 
One by one, they entered the water. A family made a small boat and launched it together. They took turns rowing. A larger group of people lashed together logs to fashion a raft. Together they pushed and pulled until the raft was afloat. Then they all climbed aboard and chose one man to pole them into the current. 
Swimmers, floaters, and boats moved downriver. Sometimes they hailed each other, other times they focussed on their own journey. Some cooperated, taking turns rowing, others just sat and watched the scenery. Swimmers stroked alone but some stopped to help other swimmers who were tired or needed help navigating an obstacle in the river. 
So it went, day after day. The river ran quickly down the mountain, then slowed through a meadow. Speeding up on a downhill slope, it hit a rocky patch and tumbled down the rocks, a waterfall. Boats were upended, swimmers battered, many found themselves swirling helplessly in an eddy. But they persevered, helped each other out of the eddy, and finally they were all back in the river’s current. 
The river entered a valley where it flowed smoothly and quietly. The people rested, they called back and forth to each other, they even sang. But then other small rivers joined their river and the waters were deeper. On stormy days, the water turned cold and wild. Still the people swam and rowed and poled. What else could they do? They had undertaken this journey and did not want to leave the river. 
The people grew tired. The journey had been long and hard. When would it end? They rested more and rowed and swam less as the river grew wider and more calm. The water was warmer now too.  The people could relax a bit. They let their boats drift or floated on their backs, as the river’s current inexorably carried them downstream.
Finally, the river widened into an estuary. Cold salt water waved up to meet them. It mixed with the river’s warmer, fresh water. Before them, the people saw a wide expanse of water, the all encompassing sea, where life began. And they were ready. They rowed and swam towards the vast ocean, ready to accept wherever the water would take them.
 And the river kept flowing from the mountain to the sea.
 
MW 3/22

February, Harbinger of Spring
 
The month of February by the Bay,
And Spring is whispering it’s on its way.
               Soft rustling  leaves in the old live-oak tree,               
I’m here, Spring says, just come out now to see!
 
Tulips, red and yellow, poke up their head,
Yellow oxalis decorates the bed.
White cherry blossom petals on the breeze.
Sneeze yellow pollen from acacia trees.
 
The mourning doves on warm deck softly croon,
The mockingbird composes a new tune
The robin chirps up in the apple tree
Around my head I hear a buzzing bee.
            
             We welcome Spring, can go out and about,              
But still we pray for rain to end the drought.
And listen for the call of the osprey
Announcing that she has arrived today.
 
-MW

People in North America and Europe tend to think of the seasons as they are depicted in stories,songs,  movies and even comics. Seasons are specific weather, the plant cycle, the animal cycles, and traditions for humans: special foods, special activities and holidays.
 Autumn is falling leaves, crisp cold air, apple cider, harvest time. We celebrate Halloween with pumpkins and Thanksgiving with turkey, corn stalks and more pumpkin. Winter is cold, with snow and ice. We build snowmen, go skiing or skating, drink cocoa by the fire. The trees are bare. Spring is lilacs, bulbs sprouting and flowering, rain showers followed by sun, warming air, cherry blossoms. The first strawberries, freshly sprouted greens. And summer is hot, time to go to the beach, trees in full leaf, cherries, ice cream, sodas, picnics and barbecues on a lush green lawn.  Outside living. Interrupted by a brief thunderstorm. 
​These symbols are not wrong but they are provincial and stereotypical. 
Meanwhile, I have heard many people say that the Bay Area has no seasons. Having grown up here, I can attest that these people are wrong. We do not have the Hallmark card Christmasses or dream of a White Christmas (except to drive to the Sierras), many of our trees are still in leaf in January, and the grass is green in Winter, brown in Summer. But we have seasons, albeit a bit more subtle here. One must be tuned into Nature to feel our seasons. We do celebrate the traditional holidays the same as on the East Coast, but with a slight change. And our diverse community means that many other holidays are celebrated as well, such as Divali, Moon Festival, Eid al Fiitr, Rosh Hashana, and Juneteenth. The photo essay that follows are my thoughts and feelings about our seasons in the Bay Area. I'd love to hear from readers if they agree or disagree and what are your favorite parts to each season.

Autumn, to me, is the beginning of the year. First of all, it is the beginning of the school year. And I spent 20 years in school as a student and another 21 years as a teacher. Then too, the rainy season begins in late Autumn. Every year, usually near the end of August, there is one day when I feel Autumn coming. The day is warm with a light wind and the air is dry. The days are colder in Vallejo, 20 miles to the North, and warmer in Berkeley, the reverse of the Spring and Summer days. After Labor Day is the true beginning of Autumn. Gradually, leaves turn colors on the trees. Harvest is in full force. We bring in tomatoes and make tomato sauce, cook zucchini and make soup, stuff a large zucchini, and still have plenty to give away. And apples! Apple pie, apple sauce to last the entire Winter. The freezer is full. 
Then there are the holidays. Stereotypical and provincial as they are, I grew up with these holidays and they still mean something special to me. Autumn brings the harvest holidays for many cultures. It brings the Moon Festival, when one eats mooncakes, and Diwali, festival of lights, and Sukkoth, another harvest festival. But most popular is Halloween, a time for kids to dress up and go out at night. Spooky decorations and carved pumpkins.  Then comes Thanksgiving, a holiday to spend with family, and interestingly one that has been less commercialized than other holidays.  Cooking together, sharing food, and sharing a meal. And a chance to eat turkey. Roast turkey with gravy, hot turkey sandwich, cold turkey sandwich until finally I have had enough turkey to last me a while.  A cornucopia centerpiece filled with Fall produce, which in the Bay Area usually includes a pomegranate, sometimes kiwis, and lemons. And Fall leaves dipped in melted wax to preserve them. Traditionally, I plant my bulbs on Thanksgiving weekend.  A promise of Spring to come. 

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 Sometime in November, the rains arrive (hopefully) and Winter is here in the Bay Area. The skies are gray and cloudy, days are shorter and nightfall earlier. And best of all, the hills turn green. Every year, I watch the hills, rejoicing when I see green grass sprouting and worrying when the hills are still brown. Not golden as in the summer but more a more sickly parched brown. This year, they turned green on time! More time is spent indoors. In December, the kiwis grow large and ripen. Then it is a race to pick them before the squirrels eat them all.  In the store and at market, mandarins arrive, juicy sunshine. 
December is a holiday month. Like others, I put up lights at the beginning of the month to brighten the dark evenings. I decorate the house with Christmas scenes and I set up an advent wreath. Some years, there is a Christmas tree. Aa a child, the Christmas tree was the centerpiece, surrounded by wrapped presents that we could see but not touch. Eager anticipation. Then there was the display put on by Mr. Shadi, an Indian Sikh who, despite his origin and religion, put on a full Bethlehem display every year. I knew that  display from my early childhood and it has now been taken on by volunteers so that it lives beyond its creator. A true gift to the community. 
 As an adult, I attend the Christmas Revels, the Messiah sing along, and the Christmas Eve service. I sing Christmas carols in the car, at home alone, in my singing group. I love Christmas carols, always have, and have learned at least 100 of them in various languages. As a teacher, I loved planning holiday lessons in Math, Language Arts, and Art, singing holiday songs, and the general aura of festivity. 
The last days of December have always been a letdown to me. The presents were opened and no longer a focus of anticipation but simply things. The holiday festivities ended and financial tasks awaited. While teaching, I did no schoolwork the week before Christmas but then had to do it all the following week before classes started again. Today, it is more an end to the festivities and activity and a time for quiet reflection. 
But January brings its own pleasures. While there is still welcome rain, one day I see the tulip trees are blooming, a harbinger of Spring to come. The bulbs begin to poke up their green leaves. The days imperceptibly begin to grow longer. Spring is on its way.

In the Bay Area, Spring comes in February. The plum and cherry trees are in full blooms, other trees begin to leaf out, the robins return. My mother used to buy the first strawberries for my father's February birthday. Valentine's Day fits Spring with its pinks and reds and message of love. Tulips and daffodils are blooming. Easter too, is a fitting holiday, and indeed, it was born of ancient Springtime rituals and the equinox. Its symbols herald the budding life of Spring: eggs, chicks, flowers and grass. There is the cherry blossom festival as well. There are (hopefully) days of rain showers interspersed with sunshine and rainbows. Windy days, just right for kites. Roller skating and swings. Robins arrive.  The ospreys return to begin nesting. Spring is fresh and new, birth and life, babies, new sprouting plants. Time for children to play outside. And time to plant the vegetable garden. There is May Day, celebrated by but a few. And Mother's Day, for what better month in which to honor those who bring us life and love and family. 
I used to hear that Spring was wonderful in the East and that California had no Spring. I would counter that the Eastern Spring may be more spectacular, with its lilacs and the snow melted, but it is fleeting, while our Spring, filled with bird song and blossoms of all colors and sunny days, lasts four months.

In late May comes summer. Along with cherries. Hot summer days, sunning on the beach. Not. Summer in the Bay Area, at least by the Bay, is fog. Warm days and cool nights. As a child, I would change my clothes several times a day in the summer: first long pants and a jacket in the morning, later shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, then back to the jacket in the evening. But always barefoot, for the pavement held the heat of midday. A jacket and shorts was de rigueur. Summer, of course, meant vacation from school. As a student, time to just loaf or find activities of my own. Play time with friends. And family vacations. My favorite of these were the times we went camping. Lots of outdoor time. Popsicles and lemonade. Picnics. As an adult and teacher, summer was a welcome relief, time to rest then to plan the following school year. Perhaps a trip somewhere. Time to clean up and do all the household chores I had neglected during the school year. Time to work in the yard every day. Precious time. For seven years, I enjoyed the arrival of the next Harry Potter book just as school got out. I silently thanked Scholastic for timing the books' arrival to coincide with the end of the schoolyear. I could just sit and read all day and night for several days.
 The only real summer holiday is July 4th. It has never been my favorite holiday. The fireworks didn't impress me all that much and reminded my of bombs. In recent years, I worry about their effect on the ospreys and other birds nesting. Still, they can be fun to watch. Of course, many years, the fog obscures one's view. Our well-loved fog, so loved that it has been named Karl.  The symbol of summer in the Bay Area. 
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                                    Vain Questions

                              Whence, whither, why?
                              The mysteries of life!
                              We'll never cease to ask
                               And we'll never know. ​

Trying to get that elusive Christmas present that I already stripped of its fur.