A Foretaste of Fall
(revised version)
It is the school-imposed end of summer, Labor Day weekend, a weekend I look forward to all summer long for the love of Fall. It is not good to be this way. Religious leaders preach living in the present for that is all we have. I have yet to overcome this and many other bad ways of thinking. I look forward to the crisp days of September when a breeze shimmers through, what I call in my ignorance of the real name, the penny tree. It is so named because when the wind blows the leaves look like so many pennies shimmering down from Heaven. I live for the days when the sun is so hot it tingles on the skin– yet it is not the strong sun of July that burns quickly. The angle of the sun in its diurnal slant is different. Summer is definitely slipping away.
The bees, wasps and yellow jackets are having a heyday in the goldenrod, Joe Pye Weed and Purple Loosestrife. The marsh is thick with flying insects going this way and that. My eyes capture swallowtails. Happily the monarchs are still here. A turkey vulture circles overhead. Some carrion must be nearby. Earlier we saw two golden hawks fly sunlit into the back field. A wisp of a cloud floats by in an otherwise perfectly blue sky. This summer has flown by in the blink of an eye like a fritillary flits by the flowers in the marsh.
The smell of fresh cut lawn is intoxicating to my raw senses. Soon the grass will cease to grow and the lush green will look washed out. All of its inhabitants in the metropolis beneath our feet will dig deep underground or turn off their bodily systems to overwinter– an amazing concept to a mammal. Some fill their bodies with a type of antifreeze. Nature never ceases to astound. This summer I have made my peace with the insects. Terrified of them as a child I have come to love and respect them, indeed hold them in awe for the feats they accomplish. Our accomplishments pale as humans, supposedly so superior.
No longer do I see turtles sunning on rocks or snakes coming out to bask in the heat of the road. Some species of birds have left already– unbeknownst to me. I just know that some I used to see are gone and the bird song of the spring mating season is a fleeting memory. One lone humming bird flies around the marsh intermittently, causing excitement upon spotting him.
It is the time to dead head the flowers of summer. It is the time of Black-Eyed Susans and Peonies and Sebum. And soon it will be the time of the Mums.
With each gust of wind yellow finger-like walnut leaves shower down on our heads– like large yellow snowflakes– a foretaste of snowfalls to come. The sun’s shadows grow long as twilight is near. Soon the white cloud “lions and tigers and bears” will retire into the black cave of night. And the summer will die and in dying, give birth to fall. The comfortable rhythm of the changing season beats in our sometimes unhearing hearts.
(Aknowledgements to “likes” and comments may be delayed. Recuperating from surgery.)
I remember…
Christmases of very long ago, when my parents were just barely out of childhood themselves and we went to my Sicilian grandparents’ house in Larchmont. And there was good cheer, Grandma shouting, “Whoopee, Whoopee!” after a few sips of wine before she disappeared into the kitchen to bring out a sumptuous, Italian meal with foods I no longer eat– bracciole and the ever familiar spaghetti with meatballs. My Grandmother’s meatballs tasted like no others and as many times as my mother asked for the recipe, each time the recipe changed. We children had teeny glasses of wine mixed with water. And after the meal, while the womenfolk were cleaning up in the kitchen, the men sat in the living room on the sofa, hands folded over their stomachs, dozing. Then out came the mandolin when Grandpa woke up and there were festive Italian songs to dance to.
Now Christmases are very quiet. My life with my husband is very contemplative. No more hoopla. No more meatballs or bracciole. No more wine. No more visting with the few relatives still with us. Old friends are mostly gone. A very few of the most precious ones are left, one or two new friends and a couple of lovely neighbors are in our hearts. But I am deeply grateful for the best friend of my life, my husband. Retirement has knit us closer than ever. We do not want hoopla and festivities. Just some music, our little, trusty tree and heart ornaments I bought with my school bestie (long gone) over 50 years ago. Now my husband is the light of my life. He brings the spirit of Christmas to my heart every day. We are grateful to wake up to each other every morning and pain over the thought of the inevitable loss of the other. Life is poignant, precious. Christmas always brought tears. Fears. Underneath all the celebration, even as a child I always felt the vibration of life… and the mystery and nearness of death. Now only more so. Hoopla only goes so far. SPIRIT is underneath all.
A happy Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Diwali to you all and to all a good life!
MOONSIDE 
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