The sojourn to camp was a last-minute decision. My whole intention was to yard a couple of logs out of the woods for a camp neighbor, but I determined there was not enough weight on the back of the tractor to avoid the teeter-totter effect, so I’ll tackle that task in the next couple of weeks.
Instead, we started a stupendous blaze in the woodstove to drive out the damp, then used the neighbor’s washer to agitate a load of sheets and pillowcases. The window of delight is closing, and soon, no one but me will want to sleep at camp. Fires go out overnight, and floors are cold in the morning. And it’s OK—for me.
It’s the progression of seasons: summer being perfect, early autumn kicking summer in the shins and sending it home to collect a new batch of mosquitoes, then mid-autumn sending us gray sky warnings that she can’t stay forever.
It’s a time for a little less Stephen Wilson Jr. music and more Dan Fogleberg, maybe some Glen Campbell and Tony Bennett—indeed, there will be an uptick of Sinatra and Peggy Lee. It’s autumn, and the soundtrack cannot be the same as summer, at least not for me.
Even the food is different. Skip the cheeseburgers and find the meatloaf pan. Secure a bowl of hot oatmeal and push Cap’n Crunch to the back of the cereal cupboard. Oh, and look for Mama’s recipe for baked beans—she gave me her beanpot when she moved to the island after Daddy passed.
“Honey, do we have any yellow eyes? I thought there were two bags in the drawer with the pasta and rice?”
“I thought we did. You’d better add it to your list. And get some molasses.”
Even the conversations are different in the late fall.
“Do I need a warmer jacket?”
“You might, but I left a vest in the truck.”
“Is it windy?” or “I think I’ll make an apple pie.”
My job is to agree it’s a good idea—I support both pumpkin and apple. And, yes, it’s windy.
The S.O. is only here a week at a time, so usually, she leaves at least one slice of pie behind, so I get to clean the Pyrex. I’ll eat it for breakfast on one of those mornings when the cast iron is still carboned up from hot dogs the night before.
No one is looking for their sneakers; quarter-height leather boots keep out the leaves and allow you to walk through puddles with abandon.
Fall is different; adjust accordingly. If you are looking, your sweaters are in the bin stacked in the basement.
Today’s photo, a new favorite, was stolen from Shirley, a twin who outfishes all of us on the peninsula. She said she captured it while the dog was peeing.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC