Jacket Weather

Some tiny, hungry, capitalist part of me feels like I should leave the post about the tip jar at the top of the page for a while—but that's not very trusting, is it? And besides, I walked out the door this morning and money was the last thing on my mind.

I live in Mountain View, which, as most California natives know, falls into the sun for three months out of every year. This year has been worse than many before it, thanks in part to that global warming some people insist isn't happening; as a result, my bedroom has been constant party to the hum of a fan for something like four months straight, punctuated by silence only for (extremely painful) phone calls. Having people stay over has been like sticking my head in an oven.

And then, last night...I didn't need a fan. I even had to close one of my windows. I did these things with no small amount of reflection, with no tiny bit of hope.

This morning, I wished I'd brought a jacket.

It was cold out on the streets near my house, just a little bite in the air, a little frosty quality to the light. I couldn't see my breath, but after a walk in a t-shirt and flannel I wasn't sweating, and I could feel the change in temperature along the hairs on my arm.

Autumn is coming.

I love the colder months; even prefer them. I was brought up in Marin County and San Francisco, and even Los Angeles had its late-year cold flashes. For all my adult years my family has lived in Fort Bragg, which is like San Francisco's rustic cousin that sometimes gets drunk at the family picnics. And I went to college in Santa Cruz, which is an infamous trap for Mendocino County natives

My point is, I am used to cold weather, because weather reminds me of my childhood and my youthful, ignorant freedom. When I suddenly realize I need a jacket, I remember being at Santa Cruz, looking up the cement slope of the hill outside Kresge College. When I feel the mist sticking to my clothes, I think of the bookstore and trips to Lush for soap I can't afford. When I see the way the sun changes in a cold atmosphere I think of the long and drowsy trips from Fort Bragg to the Mendocino Community High School and a weather-beaten picnic table where we cast pewter miniatures. I think of my parents, and pea coats, and mornings colored gray, and the warm pavement despite the promise of rain overhead. For me, the cold is home.

I know it's annoying to find your warm jackets, to unpack your flannel sheets; I know it's all a cycle and that later this year I'll be cursing the cold. But I'm welcoming the frost on my windows and the late-night hot showers, the bone-deep chills and the feeling of my eyeballs freezing in their sockets. I want every little ritual of autumn and I want it now.

Maybe it's because financial crises are finally dissolving; maybe it's because I'm stupid for an amazing woman; maybe it's because my creative juices are in high gear; but whatever it is, for me, the cold could not come soon enough. For me, it's proof I'm finally coming home.