Then, some days or weeks later the faintest suggestion of spring arrived in a hint of yellow green, usually in April. But finally, at some point tiny red buds appeared and the trees from a distance took on the slightest reddish hue amidst the gray. The dull wintry granite of the bare tree branches stayed unchanged for months, as though the trees really had died and turned to stone. The idea behind this was that every spring as you looked out over the landscape of trees in your neck of the woods, wherever you were-and especially in New England, where we were-the wash of colors slowly changed from sepulchral gray to green. One of them had even brilliantly invented a holiday that summed up their notions. Those I hung out with in the Schroeder Lounge at Yale became such good friends that I tended to accept their views, and through them began to see another way of looking at these things. This excerpt is from Chapter 18 in my book FISH OUT OF WATER: A Search for the Meaning of Life.
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