Time of the Season

Sure, I could look at the calendar to see that it’s autumn, but I prefer not to take my cues from such a blunt instrument for a season so nuanced. As early as August, signs that the door was closing on summer appeared—some as subtle as a blush, and others with the impact of a linebacker. Perhaps it was the chilly summer that provided premature encouragement to trees to start shamelessly changing colors and dropping leaves as wantonly as pole dancers at a Republican Convention. And to a girl raised in the wilds of Texas and Oklahoma where the pigskin is a holy sacrament, the commencement of Monday Night Football signals its own autumnal equinox celebration.

Over the last couple weeks, almost every run and walk with the dogs has been accompanied by encroaching seasonal early warning systems, including dawns that are waking up later every morning and sunsets retiring the light before it seems fit. When I first started hearing repeated raucous bird sounds, I couldn’t identify the source. Did someone in the neighborhood keep ducks? Then I looked overhead and saw Canadian honkers cutting their graceful “V” like a pointer to Florida. Oh yeah. We’re not in Texas anymore, Toto. Those birds of a feather are splittin’ before the snow falls.

This morning the ultimate “other shoe” of finality dropped. I dutifully picked up after Murray and Bill (yes sir, yes sir, three bags full), and as I got to the far side of Northland Park where I usually dispose of these treasures, I saw that the big, green park trash cans had been removed—not to be seen again until late spring. I don’t care what the calendar says. Winter is here, and tonight the flannel sheets are goin’ on the bed.