The seasons call me when my calendar heading reads October. “Hello?” they say, “This is fall and winter calling and we are ready to come visit you with crisp coolness and holiday spirit!” I smile giddily as I hang up, and I run out to gather firewood, flannel pajamas and cinnamon scented candles. I love the seasons––they simultaneously inspire and calm me. And so I run around pulling out my winter jackets while surrounding myself with L.L. Bean catalogs. However, as I do all of this, I realize I am sweating like a pig and no amount of air conditioning can cool the fact that I live in Central Florida where I will wear shorts to Thanksgiving dinner and flip flops to pick out a Christmas tree. The last two years left me feeling a little grumpy in October––when I realized the seasons were just prank calling me.
I knew when we moved to Lake County to be near family, I would be forfeiting the seasons. However, at the time of decision making, the three six month-old infants and the husband who was away for work five days a week trumped my desire to wear scarves and close toed shoes. And so we moved to the land of near perpetual warmth for the (cheap) help of family.
But still, the Seasons prank call me every October, sending me out to the pumpkin patch in an effort to capture the essence of fall––which, by the way, totally works––for those who feel the essence of fall is the smell of rotting pumpkins in their nostrils.
When we came to our first Floridian pumpkin patch––after we had applied sunscreen, hats, and ensured everyone was well hydrated––I was confused.
“Honey?” I pulled my husband aside, “Why are all of the cow patties in this field orange?” I assumed my husband who was male and who spent some time in the Navy may have experience in the area of bovine poop colors. I was not at all prepared for his answer.
“Babe,” he said, “those are the pumpkins.”
What?
I had prepared myself for the heat index of one-hundred-and-two and I let go of any dreams of hot apple cider, or wearing a shirt with sleeves, but I was not prepared for this. This was gross. This was like a field of orange pee filled diapers. Orange pee filled diapers I could pay twelve dollars to bring home with me. No thanks, I thought, I have plenty of those at home.
The kids ran out into the field squealing with delight to pick up the orange pee filled diapers.
“Be careful not to drop them. We don’t want them to get sog––” I started but stopped because really, what did it matter? I sat down a little grumpily on a hay bale next to a scarecrow. The side of his pumpkin head was caved in and there was stuff oozing out of his eyes. Gross. I sat there for a while sweating through my shirt and contemplating all of the places I could live that would be cooler: the Saharan Dessert, for one, I thought sulkily.
My children moved on from their liquid pumpkin experience and were now running through the maze of hay bales nearby. I listened for a moment to their laughter and shouts from my perch next to the gross scarecrow and then made my way over to watch them. I did a quick count of the little heads bobbing through the small channels of rounded hay bales.
A moment later I heard, “Help me! I’m lost!” I was on my way to rescue the lost one, when I heard a reply from the remaining small voices, “Don’t worry! We’ll find you!” I stopped and assessed, from my view above the maze, what was happening. I could see the bobbing heads nearing one another, “We’re coming! We’re coming!” they called.
It was then I registered their calls as a game. I moved to watch as the searchers found the “lost” brother and he ran into their arms with academy award winning drama complete with fake tears, crying, “I was lost!” The other two hugged him and rubbing his back and touching his cheek told him, “don’t worry, we found you––and we missed you.” They said these words with passion and scripting that would have made Steven Spielberg proud. And then they all erupted into fits of giggles.
“Ok! Now it’s your turn to be lost,” they said to their sister, “and we’ll be the finders!” And off they ran for another round of lost and finders.
I returned to my seat next to Mr. Gross Scarecrow thinking about their little game. Their squeals of delight made me think of how it feels to be lost and the joy and relief of being found. I remembered when we moved to Lake County during a season of my life when I was lost in a maze of bottles, burp cloths, new mommyhood and exhaustion. I remembered reaching a point when I called out to my family––“Help me! I’m lost!” I remembered the sweet relief as I unpacked boxes in my Lake County home, knowing I had been found.
The seasons are changing, I thought to myself, wiping the drip of sweat from my neck. I was in a new season, free of bottles, and no longer floundering in the deep hole of new mommyhood. My children were now walking and talking and feeding themselves. And most importantly, my children have had an entire mess of people––family and friends (who have become family)–– who have been there to witness, appreciate, and enjoy the seasons of change with them.
I looked over at my oozy faced friend in the October heat and knew we would be living here for a while. After all, isn’t that what family is about? In the changing seasons of life, sometimes we are the lost and sometimes we are the finders. But either way, there is always joy and relief in being able to call out “Help!” knowing there are voices who will find us and hug us and say “Don’t worry, we found you––and we missed you.”
