Seasons are changing, just not correctly

I woke up Thursday morning squinting as the bright rays of the sun

dodged between the flapping blinds to sprinkle pure, white light in

my sleepy eyes.

I could see vertical strips of bright, blue sky and, for one brief

minute, wondered what month it was. The air felt hot and reeked of

summer. It wasn’t June for sure. I just knew that.

As I opened my eyes and the solar energy cleared my tired,

hallucinating, slumber-drenched brain, I realized we were close to a

holiday. That’s right. Thanksgiving!

It just feels like the Fourth of July.

The last few days have left me with a strange feeling,

weather-wise. It’s almost the kind of feeling you get when you’re in

Vegas and all the Elvises are on vacation. It’s fall, and in Southern

California, it’s hotter than summer.

It’s not uncommon for this time of the year, thanks to the Santa

Ana winds that come whooshing into town during the fall and winter

months, meteorologists say.

I am a big fan of hot weather, having lived most of my life in a

part of India where the whole year, to an outsider, would seem to be

the mother of all summers -- life is one long, hot and humid season.

But I now think that masochist love of the brutal sun changed six

years ago when I moved from the coastal city of Madras in South India

to Syracuse, a town in upstate New York where snow forms a plush

white carpet on the ground for most of the year. My husband and I

attended graduate school there.

I still remember my first day of just seeing snow. It was the day

after Halloween, and I was in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes. I

looked out the window and saw little white things floating in the

air. Not knowing what real snow looked like, it took me a while to

realize that they were not white balls of lint.

Soon the flakes got bigger and covered the ground. I remember

staring out the window, and just staring for minutes. On my way to

school, I’d catch a few flakes in my glove and admire their

intricate, geometric structure, almost the same kind of wonderment I

expressed when I saw a painting of the Taj Mahal on a grain of rice.

I loved sipping hot cocoa while watching the snow come down during

Christmas vacation. After the holidays, though, it was a different

story. It just didn’t seem romantic or beautiful anymore.

January and February -- and March and April -- and sometimes May

-- were the cruelest months. The snow lost its purity, turned gray

and dirty. The salt sprinkled on the ground to melt the snow would

make it sticky and almost a sludge of repulsive, rubbery goop.

The countdown for spring would then begin. Well, it didn’t matter

that much, because spring would be as cold and brought enough snow to

clog up the streets and make people bring out their snowmobiles.

When summer came, you could virtually see it. People wore colorful

sun dresses and big smiles. There was the smell of freshly cut grass

that made your nostrils itch. There was music on the streets, food on

grills and bodies on the grass trying to soak up every little ray of

sun. That would, however, last only two months, and then the leaves

changed color.

Red, yellow, brown, bright orange. Anything but green.

What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that sometimes I miss the

seasons. Southern California gives me the guarantee that I won’t wake

up sulking because the sky is gray. And honestly, I ran away from

Syracuse, partly, to escape the weather.

But as the Santa Ana winds blow in my face, giving me yet another

bad hair day, I can’t help thinking that it’s November and it’s

probably snowing in Syracuse.

* DEEPA BHARATH covers public safety and courts. She may be

reached at (949) 574-4226 or by e-mail at deepa.bharath@latimes.com.