My Favorite Time Of Year

I just love fall. Really, I do. There is no greater joy than to watch the leaves change, to feel the chill in the air, see the dry ground prepare itself for the inevitable and lumbering winter to come along in just a few months.

This year, fall came early. Just last week I was in a t-shirt and shorts, rocking the air conditioning as I normally do. This week it went directly to a Chittering Chill, low 50’s during the day and mid 30’s in the evenings. Suddenly long sleeves and pants were necessary where once shorter garments sufficed. Heaters were turned on and logs were purchased for the fireplace.

But that’s okay, it’s cold and it’s grey and I like the cold. But not the grey.

There is a terrible conundrum in my life where I love fall but I hate the grey days that come along with it. There is such spectacular and raw beauty in a hillside covered with colored leaves that I hesitate to look skyward. The clouds loom overhead, not filled with water but somewhat of a growing despair.They have a depression term for this I’m sure, but it doesn’t matter—I love cold weather, I like the clothes, and I love the memories that cold brings along with it.

Cold reminds me of holidays at my grandmother’s house. Cold reminds me of warming up my car and seeing my breath, anxious to get going. Cold reminds me of my friends, huddled around heaters and looking at each other with that anxious sort of gaze that reminds us that we’re all indeed cold, but glad to hang around one another. Cold reminds me of the throwaway jokes that can only be told when it’s this time of year, usually having to do with some carnal region that is far colder than it has any right to be.

Cold reminds me of death. But not in a terribly morbid way. Only that it is a part of life, a change that happens. The chill in the air reminds all of us that nature is the only untameable beast on this ball of water and land. We adapt as all creatures do, and we live in fear of being without shelter and safety.

My wife, Ericka, experienced death just the other day, when a (very young) and dear friend passed away. The shock of it all is disconcerting to say the least. Time is short, and all that. Just when you think you’re going to be here forever nature reminds you of what it can do. Today the civil rights icon Rosa Parks died, leaving behind her a legacy that will live long beyond herself. But many deaths are smaller, more private. Mourning is not done in public for close friends. There will be no marches or media coverage. But the hurt is the same, and the pain is just as sharp.

The grey feelings of oncoming winter are fought with the beautiful colors of autumn. As the leaves depart and trees remain in various states of nakedness, I hope to remember the loved ones gone by and the memories they left for us.

Treasure this time, I tell myself, as the cool breeze turns cold. Treasure this time. Close your eyes. Remember the warmness of spring, the hot of summer, the cool fall and the chilling winter. Seasons change, people die. Seasons change, people grow.

Seasons change, and I only hope I change with them.

Finally a decent picture of the exodus
I don’t know much, but other singers know less