It’s the first day of autumn.
That seems later this year, as for some reason, my mind thinks the change of
season day is always the twenty-first of the month. That’s because when my brain
finally matured, whatever was “normal” at that time—be it the
price of a loaf of bread, the proper way to wear jeans, i.e., cinched at the
waist and not mid-way down the butt crack, or the day the season
changed—became normal for me, forever.
We get set in our ways, but
maybe we should take a lesson from Mother Nature. She doesn’t get set in her
ways at all. She has no problem having hissy fit after hissy fit, and does
whatever the hell she wants. I wish someone would give that lady a tranquilizer
so she could mellow out.
My beloved and I always note
the day when we think the season changed from summer to autumn, and it’s usually
a week or more in advance of the actual, official, first day of fall. Summer
seems to have a sky that is a rich, vibrant blue, a blue with depth to it. Then
comes a day, usually lately near the end of August, when we notice the sky isn’t
that rich blue anymore. The shade seems a bit lighter—and even if the sun burns
hot on that day there’s a quality to the air and combined, those two signals, to
us, scream “autumn”.
And usually within a couple of
days of that, we see the first tiny sign in the leaves on some of the trees we
pass as we drive—a few tiny little traitors who, tired of life, have let it go
and allowed the yellow or red to infiltrate their tiny leafy bodies.
We have a walnut tree that
stands at the corner of our porch. This tree is the last in the area to gain its
leaves, and the first to lose them. As soon as the walnuts are formed—these nuts
are only edible to the squirrels—then the tree has fulfilled its annual purpose,
and its leaves turn and begin to drop.
It is generally bare by the
time the neighbors’ maple trees have turned color. There is constant leaf raking
to be done here from mid September to late October.
This constant, seasonal reality
for us is going to prove a boon this year for our youngest grandson. He’s 13
now, and eager to earn money. We’ve hired him to be our lawn boy, and we’re
hoping he will want to work next year, too, cutting grass. He already cuts the
small yard at his own home, with an old fashioned push mower. But he’ll be 14 in
January, old enough to learn how to use our electric mower.
This has been a fast year for
me, mostly because I tried to focus on not thinking about my health. We only
took the one excursion in the summer, and that was to Pennsylvania. And as I’d
already had my surgery booked by then, the time flew while my mind was otherwise
occupied.
And while I am having, for the
time being, to have my one incision re-bandaged every day—necessitating a trip
into the city to see the nurse—I already feel better than I have in a long time.
I’m hoping that by the time Christmas rolls around, these issues will be firmly
in the past.
Bumps in the road are always
unexpected, and quite often unpleasant. But they happen to everyone, and they’re
the reason for my favorite axiom.
Challenging times don’t come to
stay—they come to pass.
Love,
Morgan
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