September Song

It was still hot and humid when my father and I started singing "September Song" to each other over the phone about a week ago:

"Oh the days dwindle down to a precious few--
September...November
And these few precious days, I'll spend with you"

Today, there is a definite coolness on the breeze. September is on the way, and we saw it coming.

You see, fall makes me sad. The riot of colors is thrilling, but I secretly hate the changing leaves. I hate to say goodbye to the long days of languishing in the summer sun and say hello to collars turned up against the dark and chilly winds. I miss the happy chatter of the goldfinches, now drowned out by the cacophony of honking geese as they soar overhead.

You can go on and on about the wonders of the autumn season but you'll never sell me. I have the Back-to-School Blues forever programmed into the circadian i-pod of my mind.

I do adjust, though, and learn to love something about every season. (Have to! No amount of heaving sighs ever helps anything, anyway) And I've found that cooking and enjoying the bounty of the harvest season is actually a great help in my adjustment. Drinking dark beer and eating heavy cheese outdoors at Oktoberfest can be jolly and romantic. The cool smokiness of a clambake holds definite appeal. Lovingly watching over a pot of chicken stock on a lazy afternoon helps to pass an otherwise gray day. Finding apples on a forgotten tree in the park makes for a sweet little secret.

So even as I slept too late this morning due to the chill in the air and haven't had my usual spirit of adventure catapulting me through the weekend, I know that as sure as I can get myself to the grocery store to pick up some provisions and put on a great piece of music (just as loud as my poor esposo can tolerate), I can be put right back on top of the world with some flying flour and browning butter.

"And these few precious days I'll spend with you."