Changing Seasons, Lasting Lessons

As a high school English teacher in New Jersey, the beginning of summer marked the end of the yearly race, yet when limping across the finish line, one could also see the promise of relaxation and reinvigoration throughout the months ahead spent on warm sandy beaches on the coast and in cool pine forests of the mountains. The end of summer was always marked by Labor Day, when the Jersey Shore closed up and “Back-to-School” wasn’t just a sale at the local Target, but the actual start of reading and writing and listening and learning. Fall didn’t arrive until well into October when the air grew crisp, the leaves changed their colors, and darkness came early. As a teacher, fall always seemed more of a beginning than an end, with promises and possibilities.

In the Adirondack mountains, spring comes late, summer is short, fall starts early, and winter stays a long time. Here in Lake Placid, the leaves start turning before Labor Day, and the peepers begin the bus trips north in September. As seasons change, it’s easy to think back on the past, yet there’s also the chance to look forward to the future.

It seems only a short time ago the lily of the valley pushed through the thawed ground covered in the pine needles from the towering trees, the sweet flower fragrance wafting through the air amid the scented pines. When I see lily of the valley, it always brings me back to my grandmother’s house where the delicate blossoms grew alongside her detached garage in the backyard. Lily of the valley reminds me of what I learned at her home on Hutchinson Boulevard in the spring of my life.

My older brother and I spent our time with our friend who lived next door, searching for adventure as The Three Investigators, following the model of the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. We hid in the empty dust filled garage and snuck down the driveway that ran behind the houses. We climbed the hill at the back, but we didn’t venture far. We invented stories to play out, and we learned what friendship was. Sometimes, we played with Coco, our friend’s soft furred poodle, and we learned the warmth and devotion of animals. In my grandmother’s kitchen, we drank tea with more milk and sugar than tea in white cups and saucers rimmed in a sea blue band speckled with gold. We heard the stories of our family, of Ella and Kitty and Julia hiding from their father under the great dining room table after sneaking out to a dance unchaperoned, and we learned about family love and testing boundaries. We ate Neapolitan ice cream sliced from the half gallon box as we watched a man walking on the moon, and we learned the power of knowledge and the possibility of dreams.

All those memories are sparked by the scent of lily of the valley gently floating across the balsam filled air on a spring morning. It moves me to recognize memory triggers and ponder what they mean. I think of the song from The Sound of Music .

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things . . .

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

Lily of the valley, as it sprouts each spring, reminds me of my favorite lessons learned from my grandmother.

In the falls of my past, new pens and notebooks and file folders reminded me of the possibilities ahead. Now, the multi-colored rolling mountains, the fallen leaves on dirt paths through the woods, the chill in early morning, and the smell of fires burning in the evenings offer the sense of opportunity. For what, if not such beauty, can inspire thoughts of dreams still to come true. As I look back in the fall of my life, there are many favorite things that spark good memories and point to lessons learned. And there is still excitement of what lies ahead in the coming seasons of life.