LIKE THAT, FALL

I’m not one of those folks who’s in a mad rush to be done with summer. Labor Day barbecues feel kind of prematurely funereal to me, like you’re rushing the patient, folding up and stowing aluminum beach chairs while a loved one lies there, still eager to chat.

Even in September here in southern New England, there’s a lot of life left in Popsicle season. And I’m happy for the extra weeks of weather that keep things dripping down my arm.

This year, maybe because of (dare I say thanks to?)  Global Warming, the summer-feeling has been lingering a lot longer.

It’s well into October, and green (but tired-looking) leaves are still hanging from trees, their chlorophyll spent, waiting to swap life for color. In the evening, the hidden peepers are still singing the day to sleep, but there’s a lot fewer of them, and they sound a little lonelier.  And in the morning, I’m still doing my ritual barefoot grabbing-of-the-newspaper, but it’s growing painful from the crushed beechnut shells littering the driveway. You have to walk Swami-style, like you’re on broken glass.

So it’s October, but it’s not really beginning to feeling a lot like Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or even Halloween. That is, until now.

Yesterday morning was muggy, misty, and in the mid 70s. I went for a pre-dawn run, but had to stand under a cold shower for 10 minutes just to stop schvitzing.

This morning was cool and crisp like a Macoun apple, and dappled with autumn color. Out of nowhere, there were patches of wet leaves on the road—danger, Will Robinson!—and I had to break-out my Barbour to  scoot to the train without shivering. For the first time in months, my eyes were tearing copiously, even with my helmet visor cracked open to keep it from fogging. I was literally riding through tears.

Like that (snap!)…Fall.

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I happened to be early for a train, so I took a loop around Greens Farms Academy and rode down to Burying Hill Beach, Westport’s smaller public park on the Long Island Sound. I had  just enough time to scoot up onto the eponymous “Burying Hill” itself  (buried treasure? Indian burial ground? Colonial boneyard?), which is merely a grassy/sandy hillock with a lovely panoramic view of the Sound.

As the morning broke,  I was able to compare my GT’s headlight with God’s:

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I think God won.

So hello, Autumn. Nice to greet ya. You’re bringing tears to my eyes, partly from joy, because we haven’t seen each other for a while, and partly from sadness, since I hate to see old friends go. So can you be a pal and let your seasonal neighbor linger a while longer?

This seat is so comfy, the sun feels so nice, and there’s still so much we haven’t talked about.

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