September has arrived, and the weather has done its first-of-September pivot, with nighttime temperatures in the forties and days in the seventies. Dave Rexroth, chief meteorologist for Seven Action News, tells us that the first of September marks the beginning of meteorological fall. Weather folks, it turns out, calculate seasons in three-month chunks that start with the beginnings of months. Thus, fall is September, October, and November. This makes a lot of sense to me, both for logical reasons and because these seasons seem to accord better with the actual weather.
The dog and I no longer get up extra early to avoid walking in the heat. A couple times this week, we’ve been out and about when the younger children are on their way to elementary school, walking with their parents and younger sibs. And not necessarily just walking, either, but also skipping and running. At the same time, the smallest leaves have begun to fall. One morning the sun, still low in sky, shone golden as one young girl ran along the sidewalk past wildflowers taller than she was, ponytail waving behind her and tiny leaves wafting down around her.
Fall is such a time of excitement. The school year begins. The very appearance of the world changes. Everything is new and full of potential. There is a quickening in the very air. In a university town, fall is the beginning of everything.
One pleasant aspect of the cooler weather is that it’s safe to go back into the woods. The mosquitoes had gotten ferocious in the heat, often biting multiple times in favorite locations on victims’ bodies. They’re so fierce, you expect them to band together next, and fly off, bearing aloft small mammals, like chipmunks.
On the other hand, fall has brought out the burrs along the woodland paths. I can cluck at the dog for poking his furry head into the undergrowth, picking up burrs as he goes. But when we get back home, burrs will have attached themselves not just to his snout and undercarriage but to the shoulders of my sweater.
Rascal doesn’t like burrs in his fur. He tries to pull them out with his teeth and doesn’t tolerate human assistance in getting them out. He prefers using his own technique: he rolls and writhes in the grass, rubbing his nose along the lawn like a vacuum cleaner. His contortions, while visually interesting, are completely ineffective in removing burrs. They just mash the burrs farther and more firmly into his fur. Poor doggy.
I haven’t been effective, either, in getting a song out of my head. It’s persistent enough to qualify as an earworm, a Gershwin number from Shall We Dance, a Ginger Rogers – Fred Astaire movie on the classic movie channel this week. The song is “They All Laughed,” a snappy number with interesting lyrics and rhythms.
Popular wisdom says the way to deal with an earworm is to sing it through to the end. I would happily do this, but I only know the first line of the chorus, “They all laughed at Christopher Columbus, when he said the world was round.” The line keeps popping into my head, and that’s as far as I get. I’ve looked up the lyrics now, with the aim of adding gradually to the part I know. At least the piece is cheerful.
Pressing family matters have occasioned a recent flurry of visits from my far-flung sisters. It is a pleasure to have them here, to reminisce and chitchat and catch up with their latest interests and ventures. It’s also fun to be with humans who share so many physical traits and mannerisms and tastes.
One manifestation of this is the pile of shoes currently in the front hall. They’re all Merrells. We sisters, individually and separately, seek out Merrell shoes. They fit the family foot. One sister even has Merrell slippers, clever woman. I look at the shoes in the front hall and smile. These are my peeps.
Sometimes, in large families, objects that are dear become lost down the generations. No one quite knows who has the lost object except the person who has it, and that person doesn’t know other family members think of it as lost. Such an object came to light this weekend, literally. It was what we always called the grape lamp, a collection of clear green and turquoise spheres in the shape of a clusters of grapes that hung from the ceiling in pride of place in the houses in which we grew up.
The lamp has been in a box for decades, and now it’s seen the light. Hallelujah!
6 September 2024