Is It Really September?
“I know about fall,” my granddaughter Madden said to me as we drove east, towards the mountains.
Her voice was a bit smug, comfortable with her control of the situation. “I KNOW about fall.” It was like she was telling me some great secret she had found out and was just voicing to test out the information. As in: did I know about fall? Was I in on the secret?
“The leaves are all going to turn red and yellow and fall off the trees.”
That’s it. That was the big secret.
Honey, do I know about fall? The mother of five who has looked forward to the first day of September/first day of school since she turned old enough to stop crying when someone first left home and was still young enough to collapse on the couch and cry with happiness because I was finally alone for a minute?
However, Madden’s pre-school teacher had told the secret about fall and soon she will be bringing home her picture of Xeroxed oak leaves, scribbled with yellow and orange, and, now that I’m alone most of the time, I hope there will be an extra one for me, for my refrigerator. Because no fall is really complete without a scribbled picture of oak leaves or a pumpkin or a scarecrow.
I asked her if she knew about the holidays. I said, “Halloween costumes, Thanksgiving turkeys, and Christmas presents come next.”
A blank. A complete blank. Nothing there—a relief to know she hasn’t heard all the secrets yet. But she’s three; there’s no memory of piles of colored paper and ribbon and snow falling. Crackling fires in the fireplace. Cracking the wishbone for good luck for the next year.
How do I know about fall? What are my first clues?
Well, the day my the sharp-eyed husband who no longer hunts, but still keeps a hunter’s lookout, first asks if I see that spot of red up on the mountains. Talk about a little smug; he always sees the first spot of red and the last spot of snow in summer. His eye is always on the mountains.
I know the first day the school bus pulls up in front of my house and I see summer’s children climb up ride off with their tanned faces, tumbled hair. They don’t look like students, they look like tree-climbers and bike-racers.
I know because I have fruit flies all over the kitchen, and in the bathroom. How do they get there? Will they ever die? I have hidden every ripe and unripe piece of fruit; even the bananas are in the fridge. Yet they continue to live.
Soup and chamomile tea. I finally made a big pot of vegetable soup, tomatoes and carrots and celery floating around in salty broth. Soon there will be stew and mashed potatoes and shepherd’s pie. And other meals besides the cold cereal and microwave popcorn I’ve been happy to serve since July.
I can walk the dog anytime of the day with no worries about dropping dead in the middle of the park. Nothing but blue skies and yellow leaves falling all around. Crisp air, cold enough but not so cold you have to find your hat and gloves.
I know it’s fall because everyday brings a new tale of someone else’s flu. Or mine. The sniffles, the cough, the “I don’t feel good” that indicates the generalized miasma that wrecks your joie de vivre first thing in the morning for at least a week. Not sick enough to stay home, not happy enough to stay alive.
I know it’s fall because those silly people who’ve bought all their Christmas presents over the summer start coming up and telling me about it.
I’m warning you, don’t do that to people. Someone is going to hurt you and your efforts will all go to waste because your husband will be busy with the funeral and won’t even remember them until sometime in March.
I have occasionally done this myself and have learned that if I buy all my Christmas presents early, they will be ugly, dorky things that nobody wants and it shows me up as an efficient, snarky kind of present giver. And generally that’s what happens when people give me presents of this kind. AND it’s always too late to return, something I know only an efficient, snarky kind of recipient would do but one good turn deserves another.
Anyway, I’m being lured by catalogues that want me to buy an eight-foot inflatable spider for the front year and darned if I don’t really want to buy the thing.
That could only happen in fall.
Her voice was a bit smug, comfortable with her control of the situation. “I KNOW about fall.” It was like she was telling me some great secret she had found out and was just voicing to test out the information. As in: did I know about fall? Was I in on the secret?
“The leaves are all going to turn red and yellow and fall off the trees.”
That’s it. That was the big secret.
Honey, do I know about fall? The mother of five who has looked forward to the first day of September/first day of school since she turned old enough to stop crying when someone first left home and was still young enough to collapse on the couch and cry with happiness because I was finally alone for a minute?
However, Madden’s pre-school teacher had told the secret about fall and soon she will be bringing home her picture of Xeroxed oak leaves, scribbled with yellow and orange, and, now that I’m alone most of the time, I hope there will be an extra one for me, for my refrigerator. Because no fall is really complete without a scribbled picture of oak leaves or a pumpkin or a scarecrow.
I asked her if she knew about the holidays. I said, “Halloween costumes, Thanksgiving turkeys, and Christmas presents come next.”
A blank. A complete blank. Nothing there—a relief to know she hasn’t heard all the secrets yet. But she’s three; there’s no memory of piles of colored paper and ribbon and snow falling. Crackling fires in the fireplace. Cracking the wishbone for good luck for the next year.
How do I know about fall? What are my first clues?
Well, the day my the sharp-eyed husband who no longer hunts, but still keeps a hunter’s lookout, first asks if I see that spot of red up on the mountains. Talk about a little smug; he always sees the first spot of red and the last spot of snow in summer. His eye is always on the mountains.
I know the first day the school bus pulls up in front of my house and I see summer’s children climb up ride off with their tanned faces, tumbled hair. They don’t look like students, they look like tree-climbers and bike-racers.
I know because I have fruit flies all over the kitchen, and in the bathroom. How do they get there? Will they ever die? I have hidden every ripe and unripe piece of fruit; even the bananas are in the fridge. Yet they continue to live.
Soup and chamomile tea. I finally made a big pot of vegetable soup, tomatoes and carrots and celery floating around in salty broth. Soon there will be stew and mashed potatoes and shepherd’s pie. And other meals besides the cold cereal and microwave popcorn I’ve been happy to serve since July.
I can walk the dog anytime of the day with no worries about dropping dead in the middle of the park. Nothing but blue skies and yellow leaves falling all around. Crisp air, cold enough but not so cold you have to find your hat and gloves.
I know it’s fall because everyday brings a new tale of someone else’s flu. Or mine. The sniffles, the cough, the “I don’t feel good” that indicates the generalized miasma that wrecks your joie de vivre first thing in the morning for at least a week. Not sick enough to stay home, not happy enough to stay alive.
I know it’s fall because those silly people who’ve bought all their Christmas presents over the summer start coming up and telling me about it.
I’m warning you, don’t do that to people. Someone is going to hurt you and your efforts will all go to waste because your husband will be busy with the funeral and won’t even remember them until sometime in March.
I have occasionally done this myself and have learned that if I buy all my Christmas presents early, they will be ugly, dorky things that nobody wants and it shows me up as an efficient, snarky kind of present giver. And generally that’s what happens when people give me presents of this kind. AND it’s always too late to return, something I know only an efficient, snarky kind of recipient would do but one good turn deserves another.
Anyway, I’m being lured by catalogues that want me to buy an eight-foot inflatable spider for the front year and darned if I don’t really want to buy the thing.
That could only happen in fall.
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