The Season, Not the Event
Although the subtitle refers to skinned knees and bruised knees, I suppose that the season of Fall could also be an event. The trees certainly put on a show with their golden red, brown and yellow leaves raining down to the earth. The resulting carpet of colorful discarded foliage swishes and crunches beneath our feet provide a soundtrack to the crisper days.
As a child I was not that fond of autumn. The season meant more days spent inside. The sun going to bed so early it meant that there was hardly any time to play outside after school work was done. Gone were the late summer nights and the joy of being able to stay out a little bit later because it had become cooler in the evening hours. Now we had to wear coats and not forget them at school. Shoes we had to tie up instead of slippers we could kick off. Now we were stuck inside the school room playing “heads up 7Up” and other games while rain pelted the window.
I am now in what has been called your golden years, the autumn of my life. Still don’t completely like it. It feels like I’m stuck inside a lot because it’s colder. Sometimes, I’m ready for bed as soon as it gets dark, even if there’s a show I want to watch. It seems as the sun goes down my energy’s goes with it and I end up DVR’ing most things.
Since moving to this little town, I have grown to love Fall most of all. Autumn here means less wind, less dust in the air from the farmers, less stifling heat.,The rains will come to wash away the hot dreariness that linger in the last of the summer days. The temperate afternoons are lazy with a cup if hot tea and a slice of zucchini bread made with summers harvest. Now the pumpkins grow plump for their day, their namesake spice flavoring the world. The corn harvested, their stalks ready to make a maze for Autumn revelers to get lost in.
There is a quote that I read the other day that perfectly sums up this season:
“Go, sit upon the lofty hill, And turn your eyes around, Where waving woods and waters wild Do hymn an autumn sound. The summer sun is faint on them — The summer flowers depart— Sit still— as all transform’d to stone, Except your musing heart.” Elizabeth Barrett Browning, The Autumn
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