© St. Petersburg Times, published November 13, 2002
Autumn is supposed to come today. It is the 13th of November and it is high time. There is nothing subtle or gradual about the way we change our seasons. One morning there is sudden relief, that's all.
It is strange to know that what is sweet for us was, in other places, the cause of such bitter destruction. The other end of this weather killed 16 people in Tennessee, 12 in Alabama, five in Ohio, one each in Mississippi and Pennsylvania.
Here, mostly a little rain. In the same way, mighty hurricanes in their prime terrify Florida and North Carolina, then grow old and cause drizzly weekends in New Jersey. Disaster is an accident of location.
Because so many of us were born in other places, it is common to hear people express longing for the "real" autumnal change of, you know, Up North. They recall fondly that as early as September -- September! -- summer's grip begins to loosen. They point out that the autumnal equinox falls squarely in that month, proof positive it is when fall is "supposed" to start.
The native Floridian, who is able to wait until about Thanksgiving to pull out the first cotton-thin sweater, has little patience for this nostalgia. Listen, if you liked the weather so much better Up North . . .
For the Floridian-by-choice, autumn here is an acquired taste. Its principal attribute is its abruptness. Our consolation, instead of piles and swirls of multicolored leaves, is the mental exercise of realizing how short a time ago it was in the high 80s.
The November break in the weather also presents a paradox for transplanted gardeners. It represents what they have considered all their lives to be the sole province of spring: relief from an intolerant season, when nature relents and growth can begin again. Rather than fearing the onset of a cold, gray, dead season, certain plants feel the relief as much as we do, and finally prosper after months of struggle. True, there will be a winter of about seven days sometime in January, and maybe then we will have to cover things up a couple of nights. Pah.
Last weekend in anticipation of the coming season we set out strawberries and cherry tomatoes in the back yard, and new parsleys. We sweltered in the sun as though it were July. These new arrivals joined a defiant stand of rosemary and a ragged patch of oregano that survived the cruel heat and now is rebounding. We have set up a table for seed trays and are looking at catalogs.
The animals sense the change and have fall fever. The dog, who puts on pounds during months of lounging in air conditioning, is fetching the ball several more times before signaling the end of the game. The fatter cat shows new spring in his step; the lithe one can spend only minutes at a time indoors. He comes in the front, pauses at his dish, then yowls at the back door. Hurry.
The orchid tree I pass in the mornings has been in full spring bloom this week. Tuesday morning a dense fog lay over the salt water close to shore and the mullet were unusually active -- you could see only a few feet in any direction, but you could hear their splashes breaking the silence all around.
It is a good question whether sheepshead and snook and maybe a couple of reds will find the temperatures more tolerable in the finger of water nearest our home (where this summer we caught -- how many fish? Hmm, that would be zero). Certainly this will be a topic for extensive field research.
In these ways, the tail end of each year in Florida is compressed.
The summer lasts until past Halloween. The sudden arrival of autumn occurs only a little before Thanksgiving. One day you're trying on the first long-sleeved shirt; the next you're packing it for a holiday trip. Remember that this year, the last Thursday in November is the 28th; we will come out of that holiday weekend and into . . . December.
But we can worry about that later. There is no need to rush things. Just the opposite -- stepping outside and not feeling the weight of the air creates a certain sense of freedom. It might be as simple as feeling more like walking around the block, or being able to do an extra outdoor chore without wilting your work clothes. More things become possible. Maybe there will be enough time after all.