Personal Notes (October)

Ah, good lord, these are breathless days in my part of the woods. Although it is autumn, it feels more like late summer; there has been no cold front yet to sweep away the bad quality air and though leaves have been falling pretty constantly there has been no really Leafallish-day with a constant patter of falling leaves like rain. And no rain, at that; much of the earth is shriveling up into gravel and grits, to use John Gardner’s phrase. Kind of ironic, considering the flood earlier this year. I have the suspenseful feeling that "we shall not 'scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring."

There is the constant bang of acorns on the gazebo roof, and the squirrels are scattering shattered pecan shells everywhere. The lizards, so abundant this year, seem to be thinning out, the butterflies scarcer and startling, and the dragonflies bigger. For a while I could hear crows in the morning, but they seem to be moving on. Usually by this time of year you can hear the hawks screaming; where are they? A little fox has been haunting the yard around the bird feeders.

I was kind of surprised when I confirmed that I have no copy of Braveheart in the Archive. I could have sworn I did, although maybe I was confusing it with Rob Roy. Not only did I search the Niche, but I had to check the physical DVD stacks before I was absolutely sure. I imagine a copy would not be hard or expensive to find, and it comes up regularly on TV. There are plenty more movies ahead of it in the queue.  Still, it is a movie I would think I would have.

Halloween approaches, but so does the double anniversary of the passing of my mom (the 22^nd) and my older brother Mike (the 21^st). A melancholy time that takes much of the oomph out of the approaching holiday and tends to slow me down. In some ways (rather superficial ways) Halloween is already over for me. I’ve had my Pumpkin Delights (perhaps not so delightful when you are on Ozempic) and my Mellocreme Pumpkins for the year. In fact, I’m already looking around for eggnog and fruitcake. But before you know it, it will be the anniversary of Pop’s passing (Nov. 22) and Thanksgiving. But at least the prepping for that does not allow so much time for depression.

Although it is technically Fall, it feels like late summer. I leave (leaf?) you with this thought:

 

LATE SUMMER

I, dusty and bedraggled as I am,
Pestered with wasps and weeds and making jam,
Blowzy and stale, my welcome long outstayed,
Proved false in every promise that I made,
At my beginning I believed, like you,
Something would come of all my green and blue.
Mortals remember, looking on the thing
I am, that I, even I, was once a spring.

--C. S. Lewis, 1898-1963.