SOCK IT TO ME

It is officially sock weather.

The sun rose low, red and glowing. Casting an eerie glow on the water, it caught my eye while making coffee early this morning, and I realized I was cold.

I very rarely wear shoes in the summer, and the most I'll allow on my feet is a Dr. Scholl's sandal. Maybe it's a reflection of my stance against the cold, having feet held hostage all winter with thick heavy socks and cumbersome boots. Even spring boasts the need for a shoe with heel and panty hose. But summer is the season for bare feet and bare legs, baring souls and open hearts.

Autumn is in the air and it is chilly when I first put my feet on the floor. No need for the furnace as of yet, but I can feel it will be soon. I draw close my bathrobe, a homemade Christmas gift to me. The first year in the family, courtesy of my soon to be sister in law, she smiled and said “For those early mornings on the lake.” It quickly became my favorite piece of clothing, and it is well worn and much loved.

The floors are carpeted, although threadbare in places, used from breaking in puppies and kitties.

“That's okay” says my beloved. “We'll show the bare wood next year when everybody” is finished.

I smile because I know that it is part of the cycle of our life together. Slowly weeding out the old I brought with me and working around what was here upon my arrival. As time goes by, we'll find a midpoint and agree on what can be saved, what needs to be put away.

It is okay. I am content to wear socks and slippers just a while longer before the need to encase my feet in rubber soled boots once again.

Our hearts are warm.

SYMPHONY

The wind is howling this morning.

It is 5 a.m. and it sounds like the dead of winter, instead of the beautiful Autumn we are about to experience. The flags now in darkness are flying every which way, a psychedelic dance if ever there was one. Hoisted atop the shed, the porch and the little one stuck in the ground saying Boo! in honor of Halloween, they are used primarily to determine which way the wind is blowing; from the north or the south. Wind off the lake is cooler; in the summer months it means open the windows as wide as they go! In the cooler times, they are closed half way, like a giant wink around the house.

But today they are just a reminder of the storms brewing elsewhere, trying to find their way inland. The moonlight touches briefly upon each square end as if kissing it good morning.

The winds are beauty unto themselves. The sound of whistles and deep cello, the catgut bow draws slowly over it bulbous belly. Back and forth, up and down. In the background, the never-ending pounding of the waves against the shoreline is mesmerizing.

An errant goose tries to fly into the wind, the sound of its honking drowned. The symphony of the Lake has begun again, and it will last all day I am sure.

The trees are beginning to lose their leaves, shedding the best part of themselves in order to prepare for their long sleep. The birds hang on deep inside, nests and perches all but barren, used up and ready to be blown away. Nature's giant leaf blower will deposit them on our lawn, waiting patiently to be scooped up and spread over the orchards.

There is no sound in the house as I listen to the symphony. The dogs are sleeping, as is my beloved. A long night shift completed, he has come home to our open arms and gently falls asleep. I close the door and begin the chores of the day.

Life is good.

CREATURE COMFORTS

Labor Day weekend brought the lovely days last. This past Monday sun was shining, while thickening clouds spelled the arrival of the forecasted rain. Not totally unexpected, as this was the pattern of the Rainbow Summer.

Also unexpected was the surprise fruit/vegetable growing in my garden; as of this writing we have yet to learn what it really is. Most suspect it is a pumpkin, but I was not convinced until today. The tell tale beginnings of the orangey hue have begun to sprinkle throughout its rotund thick skins, the stem thick and strong. I am reminded that autumn is around the corner and it will fit perfectly seated next to the scarecrow adorning my front steps. Smaller ones have sprouted along the ground, flat bottoms to also decorate our windowsills and walkways.

Labor Day also means the changing of the dishes displayed in the kitchen hutch. Afternoons are meant for naptime around here; this ritual will not disturb the quiet peacefulness of the moment. In between I take time to sit on the deck and look at the lake, listening to the water skiers and watch the canoe lovers take one more lap around the bay. I lovingly remove the blue and white summer dishes and lay them quietly in their own little beds of tissue paper and cardboard. They will take their own nap, as I replace them with the mixture of mustard, green, red and blue plates. I work slowly and quietly so as not to awaken the sleeping dogs, all kinds and every species, spread out on the floors and atop couches.

The day before, my daughter-in-law gave birth to my 7th grandchild, the 3rd in their growing brood. Sophianna Ruth, took her time getting here, but it was well worth the wait.

I remembered once again the sweet baby smell of the new born, the innocence and the softness of her cheeks as I bent down to kiss them. The feelings were rekindled in me as to why I had so many; I loved doing this, and happily, for a little while, I get to do it again.

It was not the best summer this year. In fact, it was probably the worst one weather wise that I can recall. But it certainly will be one to remember.

THE LAST WEEKEND IN AUGUST

It’s the last weekend in August, but the sky looks like October.

The air has that snap to it, reminding us Fall is on the way. The clouds morph from shape to shape, as the geese fly overhead. Heading to points south and wherever else geese go during the winter, they honk their farewells to each other as they pass. Some of them brave the snow and the icicles of the lake; most take heed of the notice and pack their bags to head out.

Although I truly love the snow and enjoy winter activities, the summer season in Western New York is way too short. It was especially brief this summer, a fact I’m sure you’re sick of hearing from me.

For whatever reason, it was deemed this would be the summer we would suffer the loss of a great entertainer, a memorable senator and sunshine filled weekends.

It is also the summer I have signed a contract for my fourth book, a compilation of columns written for various websites, newspapers and magazines.

Aptly named Stories From the Lake, its release date is Christmas, and for that, I am grateful.

Autumn in New York is worth every note of that song, and then some. It is my favorite season and even if it arrives earlier than usual, I will embrace it with open arms. Soon the leaves will be turning brilliant golden yellow and succulent reddish hues. The harvest will begin and the feeling of thankfulness will reign supreme.

The sun always shines, eventually. Sometimes it just hard to wait.

Updates of sorts: It looks like the Pultneyville Pickle has been resurrected, a fact I’m certain we’re all thankful for. The unknown fruit/vegetable is still growing in my yard, although it is still unclear exactly what it is. It has a long stem like a pumpkin or a gourd, leaving us to rethink yet again our final assumption it is a watermelon. When I pick it before the frost, I’ll cut it open. Then our mystery will be solved.

Some of you have been kind enough to ask about how my weight loss program is going. My weigh-in at Weight Watchers these past two months have been less than satisfying, to say the least. I lose three pounds, gain five then lose four. I am trying very hard to keep an optimistic outlook; there’s 3 months until Christmas, the deadline I have given myself. It took me 5 years to put all the weight on; hopefully it won’t take 5 to take it off. But it certainly is nice to sit with the women of Sodus & Williamson who lament the same experience. Like everything else, we’re all in this together.

GOD'S FAVORITE SEASON

Another new season has begun. Time to put away that which is light and airy, to be replaced with the somewhat deeper hues of beiges, browns and orange. Bright yellow makes way for softer mustard, voluminous red parts for calmer tawny greens and navy blues.

The colors of Autumn.

God's favorite season, it is a time when the brillance that lies within all of us is called forth. Bursting in the shower of colors we possess, the aromas and flavors associated with such rainfall is as welcome as a comfy quilt on a cool fall evening. A parade of new growth before the first frost, it is a final reach for the heavenly presence felt when looking at the clouds and enjoying the essence of nothing.

The lake is translucent, the shimmering of diamonds on top the water. Rocks glisten in the path of the rays of the sun, calling us to listen one more time to the waves as they crash against the shore.

As the tide goes out and in and out again, it reminds me that time does not stand still, and does not wait for any being's command or plea to stop or slow it's pace. The trees are bulging with fruit, begging to be harvested and relieved of the burden one more season.

Time does not stop for heartbreak or disappointment, nor does it look the other way when one falls or is injured.

Perhaps the balm to deal with such feelings is the changing of the seasons; for it reaffirms the continuity of life, the discipline of sameness, and the gift of renewal.

Autumn has got to be God's favorite season. It reminds us that we are mortal, and our legacy is what we allow it to be.