On Winter, and the Seasons of Memory
As a child, summer was always my favorite season. I was not exceptional, as I'm sure most of us can recall our fondness of what little freedom we had: no school, family vacations, and lots of time to play outdoors. My brother and I would construct wild imaginative adventures in our wooded backyard in the suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. We would envision a whole world under the canopy of the longleaf pine and green, gently swaying maple trees, which served to shelter us as we engaged in an epic clash of Union and Confederate forces, or as we crossed swords in some imaginary medieval landscape, or as we stormed the beaches of Sicily in 1944. Violence to me was not yet deadly serious, as it would become during my years in downtown San Jose, or as I now witness it in my daily life in Fresno. Because it was contained within the safety of our shared imagination, it could do us no lasting harm. Sure, we had times to enjoy the winter snow (and I have one early memory of crawling through