Year Round

We all of us have makeups that consist of many strands.  Twisted through mine is the fiber of imagination.  It's not the sort to distinguish me as a seer; no, that high calling is beyond me.

The problem is I go at things all backwards.  I'm a visualizer, not a visionary.  The true prophet takes the concrete world and wrests magnificent abstractions from it.  I, on the other hand, turn magnificent abstractions into concrete and visual form.

This aberration began in my childhood, and in particular with my concept of time.  For some reason the word "year" evoked in my mind a slightly flattened oval.  The rim of this ellipse was divided into twelve variously colored segments, each representing a different month.  Along the bottom of the oval were the two segments July and August.  The other ten months were equal in length but varied in the degree of their curve.  They ran clockwise and in order, but since I always drew the ellipse starting at the center bottom, the year for me began not in January but in August.

It was a harmless concept and there the matter might have remained had not my curiosity teamed up with my imagination.

Noticing that the color of August changed from time to time‑-it was always a mustard shade, but its hue varied from bright yellow to dark golden‑-I determined to find out why.  Closing my eyes I imagined myself surrounded by the lighter mustard shade, and when I opened them again, I saw not our real world but an inner realm instead.

Now this land of imagination must not be confused with the kingdom of reverie.  They share one attribute in common: you may come and go at will.  But there the resemblance stops.  A daydream is controllable.  Within its confines we win the arguments we lost and become famous, rich, loved, heroic, or anything else we choose.  We decide, and we may vary our decisions as we like.

Not so in the realm of imagination.  There you control only yourself.  All else, as in the real world, is subject to influence but not demand: impulsion not compulsion.  Any attempt by you to determine events, and you'll be "telescoped" out.  I did make such an effort once, and I found myself promptly removed from the scene I'd been part of and viewing it from the outside instead, as if from a great distance.  Within a moment reality closed about me, and the scene was gone.  Such was my punishment, and having suffered it once, I was careful thereafter to obey the prime rule.  It's applicable to all worlds: man proposes, but God disposes.

But none of this did I know when I opened my eyes to that bright mustard yellow and found I was staring at the silken dress of an elderly lady.  Clothed in the fashion of Victorian times, she wore her gray hair neatly bunned behind her.  In her lap was her knitting, a dark mustard wool, and perched on a round, stubby nose was a pair of rimless bifocals.  She peered at me benignly over these.  "Dear me," she said at last, "we have a visitor‑-a human child.  Mind you don't step on October, now."

Around my feet raced a dizzying, foot-high blur of orange, giggling as it went.

"October!" called a voice from the kitchen.  "The human may have no manners, but that doesn't mean we can be boors.  Stand still and introduce yourself.  Right now!"

At this call the elderly lady's dress darkened, and her mouth pursed.  Knitting furiously, she nonetheless kept her voice gentle.  "Now then, September, just tend to the cooking."

A slender but imposing woman strode from the kitchen.  "Mother," she complained, "I'm the only one here who does any work.  You spoil everyone, and if it weren't for me‑
"

"Whoa, whoa," cried a tall gentleman in tailored gray flannel.  "September, tend to the stew.  I'll manage in here."  Bending he scooped me up.  "Well, little lady, you've stirred her up for sure.  But she's right about introductions."

"But I know who most of you are," I protested.  "I can tell by your colors.  That's August," I pointed to the elderly knitter, "and you're November.  Your gray is darker than March's."

"Introductions just the same," he insisted.  "October, behave!" 

The blur of orange came to a halt, but continued giggling.  It was a beech leaf, about a foot long, and with deep red veins running through its striped yellow and orange surface.  Balancing on its stem, it bowed its pointed tip at me.  Then with a flying leap it wrapped itself around my leg and squeezed affectionately.  "Hi, human," it said, and hugged again.

"November shook his head.  "Scamp!" he muttered.  Then, to me, "Who else do you know?"

I gazed judiciously around the room.  "That gypsy in the gold skirt‑-that has to be June."

"Right you are.  She's one of my sisters."  He carried me to her and made the introduction.

"The child should have a present on her first visit," June decided.  Then mischievously, "Let's give her July's walking stick."  She snatched a red and white cane and handed it to me.  At her feet a lean, white wolf growled and pretended to snap at her. 

I stared fascinated at the wolf's throat.  Around it he wore a blue bowtie with white polka dots.  "Don't let him have the cane," June cautioned.  "Not unless he gives you a ride."

Obligingly November placed me on the wolf's back.  October, still clinging to my leg, laughed aloud.  "Higher!" he shouted to the wolf.  "Higher!"

We shot four feet higher in the air and July was now a slim, dapper young man, tightly fitted out in white with a red vest over all.  The bowtie remained unchanged.  "Where to?" he demanded, jogging in place.

"Make him take you to the stodgy ones‑-meet my brother and his lady love."  The voice came from a vermilion pincushion that had suddenly appeared on my shoulder.  "Never mind, I'll make him myself."  The pincushion nestled against July's ear.

"December!" pleaded November.  "You promised."  The pincushion gave a tinkling laugh, vanished, and a bright scarlet ribbon wound itself around November's brow.  "You get so jealous," it gloated.

Embarrassed, November tried to free himself.  "Not in public," he kept muttering, "not in public."

"Hang on!" June encouraged the ribbon.  "Don't let him get stuffy now.  Make him giggle like October."

November's face flushed darker.  "Get off me at once.  At once!"

The ribbon vanished and an elegant brunette in a carmine and gold cocktail dress stood at his side.  "How do you do?" she smiled at me.  Then, to November, "Satisfied?"

"She's going to get that month to marry her yet," July whispered to me, still jogging.  "And better him than me."

"Aren't you all brothers and sisters?" I asked, forgetting to keep my voice low.

"Now," complained November, "see?  This is what comes from not making introductions."  He proceeded to explain.  August, his mother, had had six children.  Two boys, November and March, were brother to four girls: September, the oldest, then June, May, and April.  The other months, like me, were only visiting.  The sphere of snow flakes swirling in the corner (and always, I noticed, eddying in November's direction) was January, a most decorous lady.

"And very stodgy," added December.  "But I fixed her.  She came once as a crystalline ball of ice, so I turned into a candle and‑
"

"December, please!" implored November.  "No tale telling."

December fell silent but winked at me.  June took up the story.  "...and frightened her away from November, whom January loves."

At this July gave a soft howl of mirth.  "I thought February would thrash that little flame," he nodded at December, "but he's too much of a gentleman to strike his own sister."

"Particularly since I was doing him a favor," December added breathlessly.  "He's in love with January, you see, but she doesn't know it, and he‑
"

Firmly November clapped his hand over her mouth.  "December and I will help September in the kitchen," he announced, dragging off the laughing, vermilion form.

July trotted me over to the snowflakes and debonairly introduced us.  "Just talking about you," he commented.

The snowflakes swirled distastefully away from him.  "So pleased to meet you," came the cool, refined contralto.  A flurry of flakes circled my hand, and a tingly voice whispered, "You're much too big to be on his shoulders, don't you think?"

"Er, January," murmured July smoothly, "she is getting heavy, and October keeps giggling in my ribs.  Be a darling, will you, and introduce her to February."  July's hand squeezed my ankle, and I could hear October's muffled laughter.

"Certainly.  I shall be happy to oblige."  The snowflakes led me to the Lord Fauntleroy figure in the cerise velvet suit.  We shook hands politely, but February's eyes gazed only at the flurries.

"Excuse me," I muttered, and knowing he would, I ran off to March.  He was a bare maple, tossed by unseen winds, but at my approach he changed instantly to a gladiator in a steel-gray tunic.  "Come out, April," he insisted, and dragged a shimmering sea-green girl from behind him.  "You'll have to forgive my sister.  Shy of strangers," he explained gruffly.

"What a pretty dress," I admired.  "So soft and silvery."

April ducked behind her brother again.

"The rain gave it to her," March confided.  "And she too shy to say thank you."  At this, April vanished entirely.

"Run off to May, she has," March nodded.  "What a pair!"

"Is May shy too?" I asked.

"More modest than shy.  That's her over there."  He jerked his head to a dogwood blossom lying on the coffee table, then lifted the flower toward me.  A tousled head peeped over the pink rim of a petal.

"April with you?" demanded March.

A silvery head joined the first, then popped down again.  I peeked into the petals myself.  There I could make out April's shimmer and another lady in a ballroom dress.  May, I presumed.  Her gown seemed to be made of cotton candy.

"Dinner!" announced September, entering from the kitchen.  She cast a sharp glance at me.  "For those who were invited."  Her tone was crisp and efficient.  In her armchair August grew darker again.

I looked long and hard at September.  She was still young, but already a furrow appeared between her brows.  Her silky, golden hair was pulled too tightly back, knotted in too severe a bun.  Her dress was no more becoming than her hair style.  An unadorned, tailored shirtwaist in a drab olive gray, it was as grim as her personality.

"All right, I'll go now," I told her.  "But I'm coming back.  And I'm bringing you a present when I do.  I know just what you need."

Then, burying my face in August's lap, I saw nothing but mustard yellow.  When next I opened my eyes, I was back in my room.

I kept my promise to September‑-I brought her a handful of sand.  With it I‑-  But that's another story.

Suffice to say that the months and I have visited frequently over the years.  They have changed no less than I.  June eloped with a sunbeam and now has her own brood (mostly dewdrops.)  December and November eventually married; he's much more mischievous than she now.  She's always fussing over the children (three ribbons and a golden bow) while he roughs them up.

January and February are now formally engaged (but never hold hands in public), and September has married a pin oak.  I attended her wedding.  Her glistening gown was beige colored sand, and she winked at me as she came down the aisle.

April has lost her shyness and now commands the presence of a queen.  And May‑-well, I shouldn't be telling this, but she's in love with an azalea.  It might just work out; they're both sensible.  As for July, he's still a dandy, dating any who'll have him.  And March, the last I heard, was running an amusement ride.

And I?  I grew up in the real world, visualizing any concept presented to me, and learning, as I grew, not to envy the seers.  For they have only Tomorrow, but I have all Time and all Space.