I woke up this morning and it had happened. During the night the wind blew down 90% of the leaves in my backyard. I can see my neighbors again. Yuck. They can see me. I doubt they’re looking, but I don’t like the exposure.
That title up there, Autumn Falling, has been in my head since my college days. It’s the title of the novel that is sitting, waiting for me to show up and finish it. The story has changed 634 times, to date. The plot is settled now.
I still resist finishing it. Soon? Maybe.
I’ve always felt like Autumn falls on me. If my worst nightmare is going to stroll casually into my life, if something amazing or profound is going to happen, it’s going to happen in Autumn.
It always does.
It’s when the leaves hit the blower.
I’m sorry. That was really bad.
You see, I’m a little edgy this time of year. Even though this is absolutely my favorite season here in New England, I try to get to December unscathed. We are cruising quickly through October and not much out of the ordinary has happened. And I’m thrilled, except for these leaves. They are falling fast and the barren look of the trees exude a sudden emptiness.
The Adventurer hates it too, but she always manages to see things differently. When looking at the naked trees, she says this:
It’s like a never ending nudist convention.
Yeah. And nobody wants to see that.
In this part of the world, the dreariness drags on through April. I’m pretty much done with winter by January 5. By February I’m searching for ways to escape. I start threatening to load everyone in the car and driving as far south as I can to find the sun again.
It’s traumatic. I think I have winter phobia. Or possibly, cryophobia, which is the fear of extreme cold, ice or frost, according to Fear of Stuff . It’s not even Halloween and I’m already worried about it.
I guess if Autumn fell on me like it typically does, I wouldn’t be worrying about winter prematurely.
I can’t win.
I tried to pull an excerpt of the novel to share with you. I looked at it for a few minutes and my head started spinning. It’s complicated.
I’m tired of complicated. It’s all serious and dark and twisty. I’m not lazy (really). At this moment I’m more interested in whining and being generally cranky and shallow. I want to talk about weather.
I don’t want it to be cold. I want my colorful leaves to stay.