The Four Seasons Rev 1

Waking suddenly to the sound of classical music from an idling car, I felt safe and warm recognizing the phrasing more than the melody. This wasn’t the familiar throbbing punk bass vibrations that signaled the return of my neighbor’s teen but someone new. It was 3am and the queen palm was slapping against the skylight; a violent crackling that had caused me great concern. The percussive beat of rain and wind on my little house had become its’ normal wintry accompaniment, but now and then some new sound would startle me causing a disruption in whatever I was doing.

The four seasons.

Yes that was the music blasting through the night on this windy rainy eve. Like the discordant sounds of a small dogs incessant barking or a big dog’s throaty growl, the beautiful notes seemed amplified in the darkness and bounced off the fencing around my neighborhood.

The four seasons.

That was my winter Sunday morning music, as I curled up with an oversized mug of strong coffee and the dogs and read a good book or watched my favorite movie. I can smell that coffee right now and, wait, my mother’s sticky pull apart cinnamon bread. I think these days they call it monkey bread, and every couple of years I regress into my childhood and make a batch although I cheat and use frozen bread dough, because I don’t have the patience to wait for the yeast to ripen, and I’m not that crazy about kneading either.

The four seasons.

I remember cozy nights with an old love tucked into bed with jagermeister and pistachios and maybe a bit of a smoke earlier.

The four seasons.

I remember the young French army boys at the disco in New Caledonia and all the kissing in the darkness

The four seasons.

I remember my first Christmas as an orphan,; parents both gone, estranged from siblings, but waking up in a magnificent casita near the mystical Mt. Kuchima at Rancho La Puerta and finding the power was out during the storm, but I was warm and comfortable and safe.

The four seasons.

The smell of suntan lotion, baby oil, strips and bread from Huntington Beach, the smell of campfires at the campgrounds and the heavy wet fragrant air of the dawn mist on a canvas tent.

I heard the gears engage, and the music began its journey home leaving only the sound of raindrops on the windowpanes, and the occasional crunchy sound of tires on the blacktop creating ribbons of water in their wake. My eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted back to sleep, lost in the soft, colorful fantasies that were unlocked when I released control.



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