Autumn’s Wane

 “Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are all falling, and they’re falling like
they’re falling in love with the ground.”
Andrea Gibson

Oh dears~ it’s pouring in the city where I live!

The rain is sobbing like a broken-hearted lover. The relentless pounding of rain drops sends me into a bluesy mood while the chilling dampness seeps deep into my joints. It’s the kind of morning that sends me snuggling under a cashmere blanket with a steaming mug of coffee; no plans to step outside.

Yet, the autumn sky is the softest shade of grey, suggesting the sleek coat of a wee storybook mouse. Juxtaposed against the soft grey expanse are tall, vibrant evergreens that stand guard; their needles of various shades from blueish greys to mossy greens. So much more beautiful in dulled light, the images shadowed by a watery veil. The wind sleeps.

Evergreens

 

Through the window I watch as the squirrels cavort between the fence post and tumble through the soaked grass. The grey squirrel, the frisky one with the glossy, thick coat pauses and quickly lifts a hazelnut off the ground. The still agile stray manx returns to the yard. He sits patiently under a doorway’s cover, tailless, round ears flattened, eyes fixed on the watery postcard scene. Perturbed and vengeful at the little thieves that steal nibbles from the dish on the back porch. Watching.

Shiny Hunter boots, a vain extravagance, coax from the mudroom,

“Come out! Come out!”

 

They beckon me outdoors. We step forth wading through puddles, snipping berry branches, the last of the pinkest shrub roses. I pocket some acorns. The boots’  too glossy shine beginning to dull under a filmy layer of rainwater. The soles edged with nature’s decaying spoils. Perfection.

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Autumn’s damp and shadowy ending is glorious in any light; today it hints of the impending winter that will surely follow. The purest whites, the softest greys, and the stalwart evergreens still keeping watch. A loyal manx and the promise that after winter will come spring’s warm thaw. Hope.

On Being Thankful

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This weekend is the Canadian Thanksgiving; another opportunity to pause and remember all the blessings in my life. First, to family and friends. Even apart you stay an important part of a life story. I raise the first glass of Pinot Grigio to you!
There is my dear one; an excellent athlete and a gentle spirit. One day you will understand that the world doesn’t care about whether you run the 8 minute mile; rather that you kept trying to improve yourself on the track of life. (An aside rant- One day a curriculum will question the standards of a system that fails a child who runs a mile in 12 minutes! Both will be thankful for the lessons learned. Keep trying to improve; in the big picture that is all that matters.)
To my kids; you make me proud of who you are and who you will continue to evolve into. You stand up for right; you care about others, you are kind. We raised you well.
To my family; thank you for being there. Kind of like that 12 minute mile. We limp along, moving forward; sometimes we struggle through to strengthen our hearts. We circle the wagons when one of us falls off. Everyone needs to belong to something and someone’s clan!
To friends~ I’m grateful for each of you. Your laughter, stories and your mischief reminds me that together we are all better people. We enrich one another.
Raise a toast to the laughter, the fun, the struggles, the tears, the joys and the words; all moments to treasure. I wish you a gorgeous day with those you love and care for and I thank you for sharing and caring in my life.
x

Autumn’s Grace

Big White

Autumn’s gentle footsteps traced a path, follow. The outside world washed in riotous colour and crisp, cool air. Red, oranges, and yellows canopied the sky. “Come wonder,” it coaxed.

Leaves drifted to the forest floor; berries, their ruby-red and white heads shyly peeked through the hedge. Chestnuts clunked, their mahogany, soft; a mystery some still asleep within spiny pods. Acorns, twirled, dropped and rolled. Flyers drifted from the limbs of the maples that lined the boulevard. One last brilliant show before winter’s frost settled and cold, quiet stillness blanketed the land.

It’s almost time for tricks and treats! I recalled a time from long ago; a woman gathered her young, headed to the pumpkin patch. Once there, they raced from the car. An autumn search for the perfect shape, the twisted stems, pieces of curled vine. Scampering rubber boots flashed between the rows and rows of orange globes that lined the muddy field. The children’s delighted squeals upon discovery, “Who can lift the heaviest pumpkin?” Tumbled,  twisted, dropped and thunked, the enormous globes rolled toward the parking lot. Eventually stashed muddy and safe within the trunk of her car.

Autumn is a relentless tease; it whispers forth. Sunday slowly is how the morning unrolls. I find myself at a local garden shop hoping to recapture the magic, oh so long ago. Orange lanterns bow their paper-thin heads as I pass through the shop’s doors. Potted chrysanthemums line the cement floor that leads me deeper into the shop. Skeletons dangle and dance, suspended from the ceiling, bejewelled skulls adorned with sparkling silver crowns leer from the open shelves. Woodland branches and twisted willows reach forth from enormous cast iron urns.

I round the corner and spy them piled; plentiful orbs of orange and red, some white, even blueish grey. Smooth, freckled, knobbly, flat, bruised and glorious. The Cinderella white one catches my eye. I imagine it transformed into a horse-drawn carriage once the street lights turn on.

” Quickly, quickly climb aboard,” the doorman calls, “When midnight strikes, the magic ends.”

The brilliant red squash, its twisted husk topper, nature’s after thought, is added to my basket. Headed toward the cash register, a tiny, white ghost pumpkin called out. Welcome to the grouping.

Once home, two pumpkins and a stray Manx grace the landing. “Cinderella” perches atop a small black urn on the table just inside the front door. Touches of rustled autumn beauty remind me and all who pass by that this is a magical month awaiting discovery.

red pumpkin