Seasonal Lament

Six years ago, when Eddie and all of his classmates were finishing medical school and interviewing for residencies, people always seemed shocked when they found out that our first choice for residency was the Mayo Clinic in (gasp!) Rochester, Minnesota. Most of his classmates, who were either single or newly married and didn't have kids, were getting out of the middle of the country and trying to make a break for Boston or San Fransisco ASAP. We, on the other hand, had two babies and had spent four years living in a tiny apartment, so our decision about where to spend the next three years of our lives was highly influenced by where we could afford to buy a house and live fairly comfortably on one resident's salary. People kept saying, "It's so cold there" and "there's no city nearby" but I thought they were kind of silly themselves for choosing programs based on where the weather was good or where there were lots of cool restaurants and bars.

We moved to Minnesota. It was cold. We didn't see the sun from November until April, unless the weather was below zero. But Minnesotans bond over surviving the cold weather, and after three years of shoveling snow and driving on ice and not seeing the ground for months at a time, I felt intrepid.

Then we moved to Texas. I was excited to be getting away from the endless winters. I was excited to see the sun again. I was thrilled to be living so close to a big city again. We thought living in Minnesota was affordable, but houses in Texas were downright cheap-- we traded in our little raised ranch for an extra thousand square feet in a two-story house. We visited in April when the weather was beautiful and I reasoned that if I could handle three Minnesota winters, four Texas summers couldn't be all that bad.

But it's October, the "end" of our third Texas summer, and I feel like throwing in the (very soggy) towel. Isaac is turning three next week, and he knows his birthday is in the fall. Whenever we talk about how his birthday is coming soon, he says, "No Mom, my birfday is in the fall. It's still summer here." It is still summer here. The ten-day weather forecast still predicts partly cloudy days with highs around 90 and lows in the mid-70s. When I was watching General Conference on tv yesterday and saw people wearing long sleeves and sweaters, it almost made me cry. I'd love to wear a sweater. Heck, I'd love to wear a short-sleeved shirt and go outside without rivulets of sweat collecting in my bra. If you want an idea of what my run felt like yesterday, go put your treadmill in your bathroom. Turn on your shower. Then get on the treadmill and run twelve miles. By the end, I felt like I could be wrung out like a sponge.

When I complained about the weather in Minnesota, I felt bonded to a community of people who could conquer the cold. Only hardy souls could do it. When I complain about the weather here, I just feel like, well, a complainer. It's hot-- get over it. And most of the time, I can get over it. But when October rolls around and I think about my childhood autumns apple picking and driving through hilly New England to "catch the leaves" or General Conference weekends in Provo, driving the Alpine loop and looking at the yellow aspens quake and lose their leaves, I really feel like I'm missing out. I ate a Minnesota Honeycrisp apple the other day, and it practically made me cry because I had a flashback to apple picking with the kids a few falls ago.

One more Texas summer (after this one). I can get through it. I'll probably complain. A lot. But after that, we're outta here. By that time, after paying our dues with three winters on the tundra and four summers in hell, we'll be one of those "silly" people who has the luxury of choosing a place to live based on climate. And high on my list is a place with four seasons, of relatively equal length.