James Etheridge

It is the Dead of Winter in Georgia, as well as for most of the Northern Hemisphere. The Dead of Winter is like the Dog Days of Summer, only the complete opposite. The Dead of Winter is the coldest part of the season, when average temperatures typically reach their lowest point between January 10 and February 10.

I am a weather junkie. I love keeping up with the predictions and forecasts, but you can pretty much tell what’s getting ready to happen by the look of the sky, the feel of the air and, if you’re arthritic, the aching in your bones. This time of year things can vary greatly from day to day, so you generally have to plan outdoor activities by checking the weather charts well in advance. But when you walk outside and the sky is gray and overcast, the air is cold and still, the trees are barren, the grass is brown and nothing is moving, you’ll know it’s the Dead of Winter. It might be that way for several days or even weeks, but at that point all there is to look forward to is the coming of April.

I used to hate the winter. I hated it with a passion. I could not wait until spring and the promise of the coming summer arrived. I lived for the summer. I loved the heat, the hotter the better. Pool time, boat drinks, lake life and trips to the beach. Maybe it came from getting older and developing somewhat of an aversion to heat and humidity, but I grew to tolerate and even embrace the winter. I learned to find beauty in the barren woods and the occasional snowfall. I came to appreciate and even see beauty in the Dead of Winter between January and March.

Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t completely gone snowshoe yet. I’m not one of those chionophiles who can work outside when it’s freezing, play golf when the high is the mid-thirties, go for a walk in the morning wrapped up like the kid in A Christmas Story or drive my convertible with the top down while wearing a parka and a ski mask. I prefer to enjoy the winter for the most part from the indoors with a fire, warm comfort food, coffee, hot cocoa or a nice dram.

We have numerous bird feeders in our back yard. I am diligent about keeping them full in the winter and love to sit at the back window and observe the different species come in to feed. I also enjoy looking at the creek and the woods behind our house. In the winter, when the leaves are down, I can see the whole valley. It reminds me of the woods that were behind our house where I grew up in Gresham Park. I see the trees, the leaves on the ground, the woodland creatures, the gently running water of the creek and the memories of my childhood come flooding back. It is one of the things I love most about our house.

The older I get, the more I realize that each season is a gift of its own to be treasured and appreciated. When I was growing up, I had an aunt, uncle and three cousins who lived in South Florida, Fort Pierce, to be exact. Fort Pierce is located on the Atlantic Coast, about seventy miles north of West Palm. The last time I visited them before they moved north was my senior year in high school, when I was seventeen. My parents and I went down for Christmas. We woke up Christmas morning to warm sunshine and gentle breezes. We opened gifts, had Christmas dinner and then went to the beach. It was about two in the afternoon, eighty degrees and I was in the ocean with my cousins on Christmas Day. Even at that age I remember thinking that was weird. There was just something just not right about playing in the ocean on Christmas Day. I think it may have been then that I realized and appreciated the change of the seasons.

In Georgia there are, for the most part, four seasons. Granted, on the upper Piedmont, it is more pronounced. Winter can be mild, the spring short and the summer long. We’ve had some late winter storms, the blizzard of ’93 in particular, which hit in mid-March. That was pretty much the exception rather than the rule, because spring-like weather usually starts about that time. Spring can be short lived, though, with summer pretty much kicking in about the middle of May. The hot weather can stretch though the better part of September, but once the fall weather kicks in it can stretch as late as early December. And that is good, because I love the fall. It is, without a doubt, my favorite time of year. October is my favorite month.

For most any and all outdoor activities, October is the perfect month weather-wise in this corner of the planet. The exception may be swimming and water sports, although I am sure there are a few hardy souls much younger than myself who might beg to differ. The heat and humidity are down. There is football, fishing, golf and tennis. Deer hunting season hits full stride in October. Fall baseball, softball and soccer leagues are in full swing. There are the day trips on the weekends into the mountains for Mother Nature’s exhibit of the annual explosion of colors, the changing leaves on the trees of North Georgia. Fall festivals are going on every weekend at churches, civic centers and in cities, towns and communities. It is, in my opinion, the perfect time of the year.

Jackie loves quotes, and one of her favorites, by Stanley Horowitz, states that, “Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.” That makes me think that our lives are like the seasons and the description of the four are descriptions of the times of life. Childhood is like the spring, a flowing and carefree watercolor. Many colors blend into one another, loosely tying together to form one work of art. Summer, the time of youth and early adulthood, is like an oil painting. Depending on who we are, the oil painting can be finely and realistically detailed, a loose impressionistic piece capturing the color and the light, or an abstract whose deeper meanings are known only to ourselves and are open to interpretation.

Early and late middle age is like autumn, the mosaic of all the seasons. It is the time when we look back and reflect. We can experience the joy and the pain of all of the times of our lives. We can also lament the fact that, had we known in our youth the things that we know now, how differently we may have done certain things.

And finally there is old age, which is the winter. The winter of our lives is indeed like an etching. The lines are scored deeply into the plate, like the years, the scars and the memories. The lines then covered with ink and ran through the press, like the difficulties, trials and tribulations that we each endure throughout our lives. What comes from the press is a scene of flora and fauna, sun and rain, falling leaves, snow, barren trees, mountains, hills, valleys and evergreens, a beautiful etching of black ink on white paper, reflecting each of the seasons of our lives.