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2002-09-15 - 11:33 a.m.

Following three months of endless days with heat spiking into the upper nineties and humidity levels equaling the temperature, we’ve had a weekend of cool weather. Colorless days. This time not a truce with summer’s heat; the mist and cool breeze are taking us into autumn. Gently moving us from a season of memories into a new stage.

Fall brings fixed and familiar rituals.

Watching the leaves go from luxurious green to burning orange and red, glossy yellow and lifeless brown. The leaves on the white oak have yet to begin autumn’s mutation. The timber around my home is still thick and green, but over the next few weeks they will yellow and eventually die to brown. When I was a kid, Dad would spend hours raking leaves, and I would come running into his work, destroying it by jumping and tumbling and cart wheeling into the piles of scratchy leaves. My land belongs to the hundreds of oaks surrounding me, so I don’t rake leaves! Occasionally, I think about it. I think about piling them up and running and jumping and rolling around in them. A way of holding on to a childhood memory; a foolish attempt to regain youth.

Returning to school. Although I always liked school, I was always a bit saddened by the return to the classroom. Even then I knew it was a temporary end to my reckless freedom. We used to start school in the fall; now we start school in summer.

Calling the chimney sweep to ready the fireplace for late fall and winter. Removing the fireplace candelabra and storing it. Calling the wood man for wood. Hot chocolate or hot cider by the fire. A mystery novel. A fat Spaniel curled in the recliner with me. Loading up the hot dog griller and making a simple supper using the fireplace as stove. Dad and Mom and I--and Harriet the mutt--used to build our fall fires near the pond. I’d stuff myself with roasted hot dogs, then stuff myself some more with charred marshmallows. For the past few years The Brew Crew has talked of renting a camping space and having a wiener roast at the lake. Unfortunately, all we’ve done so far is talk.

Taking the boat from the water and bringing her to dry dock. Unloading summer toys and stowing them in basement storage. Manhandling the heavy winter storage cover onto the boat, screening her from winter’s harsh snows and cutting winds. Making a promise that next summer will be even better than the last.

Football. Heavy sweatshirts. Tailgate parties. The pungent aroma of grilling bratwurst. Hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps. When I lived and worked and attended graduate school in Iowa, Hawkeye football was a much awaited ritual of fall. This was in the 80s when Hayden Fry led an impressive team to Rose Bowl after Rose Bowl. Heady times for the hundreds of thousands of fans. It’s been years since I’ve huddled on a cold metal bleacher and watched college football. I miss it.

Changing out closets from summer to winter apparel. Boxing up summer togs to be stored under beds. Loading up sweaters and blazers and flannel slacks to be dropped off at the drycleaners.

Routines. Nothing formal or complex. Common activities marking the change from one time to the next. Simple things representing the closing of some doors and the opening of others.

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