Still the summer’s winding down. I
wanted to make a gallant presentation of a sprig of sea lavender to a woman
visiting from Japan, but I couldn’t find any of the pale blue flowers that bloom
underwater at high tide. The osprey chicks are flying now and their nest is
often empty when I pass by. The eel
grass is getting a reddish hue. The tree
swallows are flocking up in preparation to migration. I shall migrate as well.
Having moved to my winter quarters,
I’ll sleepily click a TV remote, and get a weather forecast in the
morning. I’ll have my evening drink
without the view of Plymouth across the harbor, and I shall slowly revert to
the consumption of martinis. I’ll summon the chimney sweep in preparation for
fireplace fires.
I make my new year’s resolutions in
September. I intend to get into the city more often,
travel the roads, pick apples with my grandchildren, and bake beans. As do all who resolve, I fall short of my
intentions, but my life changes. No more
will I buy boxes of chicken broth in the supermarket. On a cool day, I’ll
simmer chicken parts and make my own broth to freeze. I’ll knead bread, or at least pizza
dough. Cape Cod will unclog, at least on
weekdays, and I’ll venture down Route 6A.
I won’t get excited about peak foliage. The turning of the leaves is a long and
beautiful process. There are the maples
in Vermont and the swamp blueberries in Myles Standish State Forest. There are the yellow locusts and the wine-red
oaks. Outside my bedroom window, the
cherry tree that in spring looks like the froth on a strawberry ice cream soda
will be resplendent in red-orange leaves.
It is with fall as with the autumn
of life – a season that must be taken a day at a time. I’ll not look back to my daily walks when my
feet splashed in the shallows of Cape Cod Bay, nor forward to the time when the
pavements will be slippery with ice. I’ll
inhale the crisp air and give thanks.
