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Autumn finally arrived here in a day of cool breezes, the bluest of skies and a flutter of leaves sailing through the air and falling to the ground.
My friend Susan came to spend the day with me Sunday, our first really cold morning. I had on long sleeves and had put on socks, my concession to the cold. She wore a thick hoodie. At one point we stood at the kitchen window and I said "Oh look at the leaves!" The Faith Tree had just let go of a spate of leaves, all of which sailed past the window. "I just love fall!" Susan exclaimed next to me and sighed happily.
It was a nice reminder. I've said in the last few years I feel a certain sadness when autumn days began to arrive. Saturday I'd said to John that I felt a little reluctant to feel the cold...But somehow Susan's happiness was contagious. She went to the living room and unpacked the projects she'd brought to work on. I stayed at the window for another minute or two and admired the beauty of the day and the graceful flow of leaves on the breeze and embraced the season to come.
I've made it a point to stop each day at the window and admire the views. They are fleeting in length. The turkey foot oak has gone copper and is lovely. The Sweet Gums remain steadfastly green with a few yellow brown stars here and there. But the leaves still flutter with each passing breeze. It's worth a few minutes time to watch the season dwindle down.
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I've been having a bit of trouble writing of late. I'd come here to write and look at the blank page and eventually close it and go away. I decided this past week I needed to employ my journal once more. I have, for the past few months, either journaling daily or writing nothing for weeks on end. I've noticed that when I use my journal I seem to have no trouble writing or finding inspiration. It's not that I do anything special on those days except emptying my mind of the clutter of thoughts. To do lists and thoughts about what happened the day before or the dream I had during the night are all I ever write about in my journal, but it's beginning to work.
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There are times I simply long for places in my past. Here of late it's the old church where I grew up.
I long to go sit in the old handmade pews and look out of the wavy glass in the windows at the field next door (or the graveyard on the opposite side which is usually where I sat). I loved the hand made benches, the old kerosene stove, the plain white planked walls, the raised pulpit that was two steps above the rest of the floor. I want to hear the old fashioned hymns and listen to an old fashioned preacher.
But most of all I want to see the old sweet faces of the dear old widow women I grew up knowing. Beautiful white haired ladies with ear bobs on the huge lobes of their ears and a pearl choker necklace about their necks.
I think about those ladies often. Miss Callie with her lovely curling hair and that soft sweet face and her cat eye glasses. I see her daughter Louise now and then in town and it's like seeing a ghost she is so similar to her mother. Mrs. Waters who lived in a story book cottage behind her daughter's home. Aunt Ruth with her tight little top knot of hair on top of her head, adding height to her small stature. Oh how I miss those ladies!
Each of them meant something unique to me and each of them were as familiar to me as any childhood memory. They are all long gone, as are the handmade pews and the little girl who loved it all.
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