Then autumn sets in and I'm filled with giddiness as the leaves turns a thousand brilliant shades and the comforting scent of wood smoke mixes with the crisp fresh air. I bundle up in sweaters and scarves and dream of cable knit throw blankets and crackling fires and hot cocoa. Chocolate browns and pumpkin orange and aged cream. . .
But fall, my true favorite, never lasts long enough. And winter rain sets in, only broken by the festive cheeriness of holiday cheer; white and red and silver and glass and evergreen fill my home. And of course the whispering of anticipation, cheerfulness and good will, and the secret hope for snow.
Finally, spring arrives in bursts of color; white and pink and yellow. . . bursts of happiness and unbidden smiles and peeks of sunshine. I want to throw open my window and fill turquoise mason jars with pink flowering plum blossoms and full, white peonies and pale, fragrant lilacs. . .
Every season is distinct.
So you see, it was a little strange to find myself headed for the coast on a gray and misty autumn morning, driving past fields of spent corn and forests of fiery autumn splendor, listening to Christmas music. . . on my way to tour a few beach houses.
It was all mixed up.
But somehow we'd strung together the best of all the seasons, and once at the beach the sun was peeking through. And no matter how you slice it, the first house we saw screamed summer. It was enough to make me giddy, no matter the season. . .
