When it comes to nature and the great outdoors, I have some idiosyncrasies. Quirks, you might call them—multitudes of peculiarities for every season under the sun. I have no way of knowing how many of these I share with all of mankind, but I’d bet some of them are not unique to me.
For starters, I can’t go for an autumn walk without stepping on the crisp leaves that have fallen in the street. I can’t begin to express how satisfying I find the corresponding crunch beneath my feet. It’s a rule—I have to crush them, sometimes great bunches of them all at once. Of course, it’s equally satisfying to kick piles of leaves as I walk or to watch children do the same. Likewise, I can’t resist a falling leaf without trying to catch it midair, taking me back to my youth and many a sundrenched afternoon spent chasing them with my brother. What’s more, I feel compelled to rescue woolly bear caterpillars from the middle of the street, transporting them to a grassy or woodsy area where they can continue their wanderings.
Similarly, I like to catch fireflies at dusk for as much of summer as humanly possible, and listen to the chorus of crickets and peepers as night falls, awaiting the magic when stars begin to emerge in the east. I’m fascinated by dragonflies, too, as they skim the surface of a pool or a pond with expert precision, their iridescent wings gleaming in the sun. And as trips to the beach go, I can’t possibly refrain from walking barefoot in the sand and surf. Nor can I pass by an opportunity to build a sandcastle or gather seashells by the bushel. To me, collecting seashells is one way to bring a bit of the gritty sand and briny scent of the ocean home—not to mention countless memories.
Winter is no different with respect to my oddities. I have to catch snowflakes on my tongue, and taste the earthy, almost dirt-like flavor of a handful of snow as a general rule. Naturally, I have to build snowmen, too—even if they’re miniature and somewhat misshapen. I try to situate them somewhere near a window, so I can watch them melt in the spring. I say, you’re never too old to build a snowman. It’s a project worthy of anyone’s time. On that note, I’m also especially fond of feeling the warmth of the sun in mid-January, and I only recently learned there’s a term for it—apricity. It gives one hope in the dead of winter that spring will eventually arrive, along with its warmth. Never mind the biting cold air during those endless months. Besides, there’s something truly exhilarating about filling one’s lungs with it—especially on a crisp, blue-sky day, surrounded by snow and its blinding white light. Those are some of the best days to soak in what winter has to offer, in my opinion.
No matter the season, I am always captivated by the moon, in all its various phases; but I am especially transfixed by a full moon on the rise—massive and gloriously yellow. Even in the wee hours if I happen to awaken and notice the room bathed in moonlight, I feel compelled to go to a window and gaze at its striking beauty. In fact, I’ve been known to text people GO LOOK AT THE MOON, even if they don’t share my unbridled enthusiasm for it. Just ask my kids.
Furthermore, I find it virtually impossible to pass a white pine tree without reaching out to feel the incredibly soft needles or breathe in the sweet, citrusy scent. Likewise, I can’t resist touching my favorite tiny pine cone on the hemlock in our backyard every time I pass near it. Yes, I have a favorite pine cone. And it has become a ritual to find it hiding within the branches and gently boop it as if it were a dog’s nose.
Likewise, if a red-tailed hawk circles above me or a flock of Canada geese happens to pass overhead, honking emphatically, I have to stop whatever I’m doing, crane my neck and watch. Naturally, I must point out such things to anyone nearby as well. It’s a rule.
The older I get, the less embarrassed I am about my quirks, especially the ones related to nature. Instead, I try to embrace them, throughout every season under the sun.
Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (listening for Canada geese). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.
Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel
I have not-so-fond memories of my high school prom, most of which stem from having worn a dress that felt as if it were lined with burlap. It was a white, floor-length eyelet gown, cinched unmercifully at the waist, making the thought of dancing almost unbearable. Never mind walking, talking and breathing. However, not going to the dance was out of the question. I went because all my friends would be there. I went because the hype leading up to the event was intoxicating. I went because prom night was a rite of passage—apparently, so was wearing obscenely uncomfortable shoes and stuffing myself in a dress that was two sizes too small.
I’ve always loved the springtime—especially the warm embrace of April. Of all the seasons, I’m inclined to say that it is my favorite—partly because baseball is back and the school year is drawing its last breath, but mostly because it is an era awash with newness. Almost indescribably so. Wisps of green now dot the underbrush, as if God had been handed a paintbrush and was then asked to create something slightly magnificent. Likewise, daffodils and forsythia, bathed in brilliant yellows, have been summoned from the places where shades of gray have lived for far too long. Lilac and cherry blossoms, too, are poised to burst with a profusion of muted hues and the sweet scents of spring. Armies of tulips will soon follow, standing straight and tall in the midday sun. Never mind the rain that must fall.
