The recent, unexpected (at least on my part) arrival of our belated white Christmas set me to thinking . . . I mean, what else did I have to do as we approach the end of the year and all things accounting that go with such?   The question at hand was “Do I have a favorite season?”.  I thought I knew the answer, but I decided there should still be a comprehensive review of the pros and cons of each before making a final judgement . . . because over-thinking things is what I do.  If you don’t believe me, just ask my children.  

  I started with spring (since that’s the order in which we learn the seasons as littles—even if it isn’t an order that coincides with the beginning of the year).  It’s a beautiful time as the whole world explodes with color and Mother Nature awakens from her slumber.  The trees put on their leafy canopies . . . the grass recovers the brown earth with a luscious green carpet . . . and the flowers that slept through the cold rise from the earth, filling it with every color imaginable.  And my nose runs.  And I sneeze a lot.  And my eyes water and turn fire engine red from the pollen.  Spring is truly a double-edged sword for me—the blessing and the curse to which Adrian Monk, renown fictional detective, so often referred.  I love the new life it brings, but I can’t keep enough Kleenex (actually, I use Puffs) on hand.  

  Almost right after its arrival (or so it seems), spring jumps full force into summer and cranks up the sun.  The earth is fully clothed in all her glory and the pollen has been sufficiently tamed so I can enjoy this rebirth without a wad of tissues in my hand.  But then it gets hot.  Oftentimes unbearably hot.  Most of the people I speak with during these oven-like temperatures will tell me they prefer the heat to the cold, but I disagree.  I can always add another layer, but there’s only so much I’m willing to remove in an effort to cool down.  So yes, summer is lovely . . . if you don’t melt.    

If we’re lucky in Tennessee, the heat wave isn’t banished by sub-zero temperatures.  Instead, we’ll get to experience fall where again, Mother Nature outdoes herself, changing the all-encompassing green of the landscape to a world on fire, but without the heat that usually accompanies flames.  I think sugar maples may be my favorite tree in the fall, bursting with all the reds and golds and oranges—a beautiful blending of colors that can take your breath away if you’re prone to such.  And my nose runs.  And I sneeze a lot.  And my eyes water, turning as red as the leaves on the dogwoods.  Because now the beauty of the earth is going back to sleep, preparing for the season to come with its shorter days and bitter cold, sending everything living back into hibernation.  Except for the people of course, and we’d probably hibernate too if we were allowed.  

  And at that point, I think I decided winter might be my favorite season of all the seasons.  There’s always the possibility, however fleeting it might be, of snow and all the wonderfulness that goes with it, like snowmen and snow cream and snow angels and snowball fights.  As long as being out in it is voluntary instead of mandatory.  I’m ok with mandatory too, because I love the cold and the snow and all the hallmarks of a good, solid winter.  And yes, I realize not everyone appreciates a good, solid winter. Unfortunately, in Tennessee, it may be ten below today and sixty tomorrow.  My nose doesn’t care for that either.    

Given all that, many people will think I’ve lost my mind, but I’m declaring winter the winner—at least in my considered opinion—and I would prefer there be no derogatory comments regarding my intelligence . . . or lack thereof.  Do you want to know what tipped the scales in winter’s favor?  It wasn’t the cold or the snow.  It wasn’t the fact that people don’t stir quite as much—something that appeals to the aspiring hermit within me.  Nope. None of those things pushed winter to the top of the list.  

  It’s hope.  

With all its desolation and inconvenience, with all its shorter days and often miserably cold nights, complete with frozen pipes and icy roads, winter brings hope.  The promise of something new . . . of the rebirth that continues the cycle of life.      

Winter brings with it a finality to all that was—and the promise of spring . . . just as the end of one year brings the hope of a better one to come.    

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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