Fall

It must be fall, because we just came home from the corn maze and have scattered pumpkins across our front porch steps.

We've been waiting for the perfect fall weekend, one of those glorious days when the sun shines, the temperature hovers in the mid-50's, and there is just the slightest breeze crisping the air. Unfortunately, this fall's glory days have limited themselves to mid-week, when we're at school, at scouts, at hockey, or just too tired to move. So we went today, and although the temperature remained in the low 50's, the clouds refused to budge and the air still has a hint of damp from last night's rain.

The paths through the maze were muddy and, truth told, without the sun adding some dimension it eventually all just starts to look like corn.



There is something mournful about this time of year. We celebrate the harvest, and Halloween, and prepare for those things called "The Holidays" as if to distract ourselves from the quickly emptying tree branches and the chill that becomes more pronounced each day.

My garden is full of black walnuts; my front yard is filled with spiky chestnuts, both from trees planted multiple generations of homeowners ago. The squirrels scramble to gather as many as they can before the inevitable snows fall and every morning, I must remind my son to wear a sweatshirt despite his 9-year-old-boy protestations that it isn't really cold outside.

Time itself somehow becomes more precious, and I try to hoard it by refusing to spend it on any but the most needful pursuits. Like corn mazes and choosing the right pumpkins for the front porch. Excluding my family, I spend less time with the people I most love and this feeds the malaise of the season, making it all to easy to overlook the gift of being in a time and place that is home.


And then the silliest, most inconsequential things remind me that place and belonging are matters of choice, and that I have chosen well.