Some things are so temporary and ephemeral that writing about them in a weekly column can be a dangerous proposition, as there's a good chance they'll be gone by the time your words finally make print, and your readers will wonder what in the world you're talking about.

Some of Mother Nature's glories fall into that category, yet occasionally her virtues must still be extolled anyway, especially as I look out my window into my garden at certain times of year. Right now, it's because we're in a strange, otherworldly time known as "Indian summer," when the sun shines warm on the fallen leaves, the shadows are long, and the air is balmy and still.

Summers here in the Valley can be brutal, yet Indian summer is a much kinder and milder experience, almost as if Dame Nature is determined to prove that she really can create something pleasant for us to associate the word "summer" with. Indian summer is the culmination of that work -- a fleeting, temperate moment or two which could never be confused with the Blast Furnace Summers of July and August.

Indian summers, on the years we get them, are usually marked by hazy November or even December days, temperatures in the 70s or 80s and markedly cool nights. The short days and low angle of the sun make the hours of daylight hours pleasant and golden, and the fact that they are usually sandwiched between fall's first frost and winter's fog-fest makes it a kind of a strange and unseasonable safe haven from the usual realities we face this time of year.

But not all of those realities. Last weekend, despite the beach weather, we still needed to put up our Christmas lights, so we donned shorts, T-shirts and flip-flops for the task -- as well as a coat of sunscreen -- and sat outside, swapping out bulbs and preparing the lights for their annual trip up to the rooftop. And as I was breaking a healthy sweat sitting on the hot concrete of our driveway, I couldn't help but remember all the other, more typical years when I took the same lights into my cold hands and ascended to the rooftop, finding it still slick from the previous night's heavy fog. This year was not like those years. This year it was Christmas in Malibu.

Yes, Indian summer really can give you the experience of being a Southern Californian without ever having to rent the moving van and head south into the traffic and smog. But the best part is, unlike when you're actually living in Southern California, it's an occasional treat, not business as usual.

I grew up in Los Angeles, where Thanksgiving was often a shorts and T-shirt affair, and Christmas could be a perfect day for a beach outing. The truth is, like too much of any good thing, the perpetual sunshine actually wore on me after awhile.

People who moved into the city from snowy places like Ohio and Maine loved it, but I always felt cheated. After all, when December came along, where were the sleigh bells and the White Christmases Bing Crosby was singing about? Nowhere. In Southern California, it's all been replaced by convertible-riding celebrities parading down the boulevard and promoting their latest movies in the Hollywood Christmas Parade, while The Beach Boys sing "The Little Saint Nick." Ugh.

So when I finally moved to Hanford and had my first White Christmas (fog is white, so it counts as much as snow, I figure) I felt like something was finally happening the way it was supposed to. Thanksgiving and Christmas should be times for sweaters, fireplaces, and frosty mornings. Old Bing knew what he was singing about, even if he himself ended up leaving his hometown of Spokane for sunny Hollywood, just like many others have done.

And yet this Indian summer of ours, despite its pre-emption of our typical fall weather, has still been a wonderful, in its own weird way. So what if it ended up coming just in time for the holiday shopping and light-stringing? The fact that it doesn't happen every year makes it kind of fun and magical in its own fashion.

So providing its ephemeral nature hasn't caused it to be long gone by the time you read these words, why not head out to the backyard and sit in the sun while you untangle those Christmas lights (just put on plenty of SPF30). Or roll down the window on the way home from work tomorrow and sing "Frosty the Snowman" as the warm breeze flows in and all around you. Enjoy it. Revel in the improbable reality of it all.

But if it turns out Mother Nature's unseasonable show has already ended, remember how much fun it was to have a touch of May in November, and be happy that Mother Nature is not a creature of habit, but a wild and capricious lady who enjoys acting on a whim -- in this case, a warm and unseasonable one.

Diane Sayre is a freelance writer living in Hanford. Write to her at The Hanford Sentinel, P.O. Box 9, Hanford, CA 93232.

(Nov. 24, 2008)