This morning my friend Brian uttered the “f” word and sounded happy about it: Fall. Autumn. He had taken a rather lovely nap in front of his sliding doors yesterday, lulled to sleep by the crisp, clear air outside. He might have been fully ready to embrace that lovely chill, but I am not. Or at least I didn’t think I was.
This evening, however, I am lounging on my deck in slightly warmer crisp, cool air. The sun has been peeking out in spurts all day. It’s the end of August, and presumably it should still be 90 degrees outside, but instead I am comfortably relaxing outside at 7o degrees with our air off. With the prospect of going to the Renaissance Fest this weekend – a sure sign that autumn is on the way – I’m relinquishing my hold on summer a little more each day.
I go through a similar struggle with most seasons, save for winter to spring. I am always reluctant to give up the crispness of autumn to the bitterness of winter, or the temperance of spring to the harshness of a summer sun. It’s interesting to me, then, that I still get excited when one season changes to another. I will miss the afternoons by the pool, yes, but I relished slipping on a sweatshirt this morning. How, I wonder, do people live in climates where it’s always the same year round? I would most likely miss my little excitements at the changing of the seasons, would I not?
I will have to remember this post when it is 20 below zero and I am stuck inside under a gray sky every day for a week.
Ferociously Observant 