Mama Clark's Kitchen and Back Porch Emporium: August 2012

On my walk with Scout a few mornings ago, I noticed that some of the leaves are letting go, drifting down ever so slowly by ones and twos. They settle on the walking path or land in the creek to meander along its length to places Scout and I seldom reach on our walks.

Setting out a pitcher for sun tea this morning, a thing I’ve done scores of times over the course of the summer, I couldn’t help noticing that today something was different. In the slant of the sunlight, the temperature, the dew point. Something.

I’m still eating watermelon and peaches and strawberries. But the cherries are gone from the shops now. And there is that thing, that feeling, that difference, that tells me the year is shifting again.

Seasonal change is one of the only changes I consistently face with any degree of enthusiam. And my favorite one is almost here again. When I hear the first geese call. When the leaves have gone multi-hued. When the sky turns that high, wide, forever-after, cloudless blue that comes with September. Then. Autumn again.

Warm fires at night. Apples. Jack-O-Lanterns and roasted pumpkin seeds. The spicy wildwood smell all around the outside of the house. Stew and soups and warm, buttered bread. Thanksgiving.

Soon, it’ll be time for pepper in my coffee again.

By January, I’ll be tired of Christmas, and by February, I’ll be weary of gray skies and snow. But in September I’ll be drawing in, wrapping up in soft sweaters and warm socks. Baking. Knitting. Always writing. Dreaming of sweet potato pie in November, and the lights and songs and stories that December will bring.

I’m generally not happy about most change. But autumn change is as comforting as the taste of pumpkin butter or the haunting call of geese at twilight or the musky smell of woodsmoke. And as hopeful as the morning chatter of neighborhood children, drawn to the corner of our street to await the arrival of the big, yellow bus.