It’s that strange time of year here where you need t-shirts in the afternoon, and sweatshirts or sweaters in the evenings and mornings; when your S.O. kicks off the covers at bedtime complaining they’re hot, forcing you to blindly grope in the pitch dark of 3 a.m. desperate to find that blanket because you’re shivering under a mere sheet. Although it also has the added benefit of having said S.O. snuggle up to you for warmth.
(Hubby just asked what an SO is = significant other, or in this case, Gizmo Guy.)
It was a chilly 6 degrees when I got up this morning, but it’ll be a lovely 19 this aft. (For our neighbours to the south, that’s 42F and 66F.) Which is quite a change from the sweaty 33 (91) we had last week.
I love this time of year almost as much as I love spring. I prefer the cooler weather where you can get the housework and gardening done without working up so much of a sweat, or risking a sunburn.
In my neck of the woods, the trees started changing in mid-August – a subtle shading of yellow hidden amongst the deep green of the aspens and birches, but now the maples are starting to change as well. In a few weeks we’ll be treated to a brief but hopefully brilliant show of orange and yellow and red before the leaves flutter to the ground and the kids complain about having to bag them all for recycling.
Two black squirrels and one grey have dug numerous holes in my back lawn furiously preparing their stash for winter. No, they’ll never find whatever it is they’re burying and next spring all sorts of strange plants will sprout where they shouldn’t. The wild bunnies that frequently help de-weed my lawn of dandelions are growing fatter, while flocks of Canadian geese range overhead.
It cannot be ignored: winter is slowly creeping our way.
But until the first snowflake arrives and my world is reduced to a banal grey and white, I’ll bask in the sunlight pouring into my family room; I’ll revel in the green grass which has finally revived after a dismally dry summer. And while I’ll miss the orange breasts of the robins that have deserted us for warmer climes, and the bright yellow of the goldfinches that have donned their dull green winter clothing, I’ll welcome the bright red of the male cardinal who returns here every autumn with his not-so-brilliant mate.
And try to forget what it all portends.