"I see the turning of a leaf dancing in an autumn sun, and brilliant shades of crimson glowing when a day is done." - Hazelmarie Mattie Elliott
From 2013--I think.
It’s funny the things that become
routine without you realizing they’ve done it. My office is in the garage and
its door is probably 50 feet from the back door of the house. I make this walk
upwards of 10 times a day. More if I’m restless or if the words are hiding from
me. Less if my fingers can’t keep up with them.
Coming from the house, I look
toward the east and west horizons to see if anything has changed since the last
time. Are the beans out of the field? Did they spread manure—I can tell when
they do. Are the suet feeders empty?
Going back to the house, I look
down. For season-predicting wooly worms. For the nasty little black worms that
come out in fall. To see if the cats’ bowls are empty. Again. To make sure I
see the step that hasn’t moved in 10 years or so but still manages to trip me
from time to time.
When I hear the noises, I know
where to look to see the waving magic carpet of dark birds or the honking,
straining vee of geese heading out for their long flight.
What I don’t hear will call my
attention just as quickly, and I still know where to look. The deer will be
sauntering through the lower slope of the side yard, slurping up water released
by the geothermal system that keeps our house comfortable in all seasons. The
cats will run down to join them, silent in their reminder that this is their
yard, after all. The deer nod their heads in greeting—or so it seems to me—and
go on drinking.
When darkness has fallen, its
velvet cushion of quiet is often broken by sounds from the high school. We’ll
hear the band on Friday nights when there are home games, kids shouting at
other times. It never ceases to amaze me how loud and clear the voices are from
two-point-three miles away. We laugh, Duane and I do, about our remote control
bleachers.
Sometimes we are in the real bleachers when
our grandson plays or our son-in-law coaches, or in lawn chairs at soccer
matches where a younger grandson runs and kicks with unbridled glee and without
mercy. There is much said about youth sports being too competitive, but the
memories that are made on fields and gym floors and ball diamonds are not ones
I’d want to give up. They are ones I still hear and feel and see and smell in
the soft-crisp nights of autumn. Those memories are like the scent of burning
leaves and the snap of fresh apples in their sweetness.
I have walked between the house and
the office twice already this morning and am getting ready to make the third
trip. The grass is still an optimistic green beneath the scattering of leaves,
the marigolds and the mums raucously bright reminders of the brilliance of
fall. The cats mutter as they eat the morning food they had to remind me at
least three times they were waiting for.
The grain trucks are already
rumbling over the roads this morning. The air smells of harvest time and makes
me want soup and something pumpkin and desserty even though I haven’t had
breakfast yet.
Soon I will walk on
the Nickel Plate Trail. The leaves will crunch beneath my feet. I’ll laugh out
loud and alone at the book I listen to as I walk. It will smell so good. Feel
so good.
It is unexpected routine. It is
fall in all its glory.
