Fall is my favourite time of the year.
I love the colours of the leaf palette. The school bus plays peek-a-boo between the trees as it drives by in the morning.
I love that rich fall-blue hue to the sky. No other season has the crisp feel to that daytime blue, or the not quite dusk, royal blue that fills the sky.
Fall is a time of rushing.
Farmers work from dawn to long past dusk, bringing in their harvest. Their combines light up their fields late into the night. The crop dust is never-ending, creating a golden haze in the sky, creating a halo around the sun.
Kitchen gardens are stripped, the fresh vegetables canned, frozen and pickled. The stalks are broken, crushed to the earth for next year’s mulch. Pea netting is cleaned, folded and hung. Hoes and shovels are sharpened, oiled and put away.
Fall is the season of goodbye.
Geese and swans fly overhead, singing their noisy farewells with promises to return in the spring.
Frost glistens across the lawn this morning reminding me of this fleeting season. Indian Summer deceives me. That hazy afternoon warmth mimicking summer tricks me into shorts again. But as soon as the light fades I shiver, needing a sweater to remain outside.
I smell the first home fires on the evening breeze. Nothing like the summer barbeque scent. Fall fires built from leaves and garden detritus have an aroma of comfort to me. Reminds me so much of my childhood. Of putting our garden to bed for the winter. When I helped put those last jars of jams, jellies and pickles on the larder shelf. And helped fold the sun-aired quilts, tucking them into the linen closet or laying them across beds on standby for a cold night.
I pick through these memories as I write part 4 of Moustache on the Moon, I wonder; what kind of season will Marnie Enoch have on her New World?
Moustache on the Moon by d.k.snape 