Tag Archives: Autumn

12.02.25
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If I Were Robert Frost

Robert Frost
William Shakespeare.

. . . I would put this in verse. Or if I were Shakespeare, I would write it in blank verse and make it comical, tragical, or historical. But I’m not Robert Frost, and I’m certainly not William Shakespeare, so here it is, and you’ll just have to imagine it’s poetic and comical, tragical, or historical:

(Written in Late October)

My dog took me out for a walk around the block on a sunny, windy day with gold leaves flying through the bright blue sky. 

Photo by Jon Sailer on Unsplash.

I’m so glad God still knows how to do October.

The question was in some doubt, as our glorious summer has been hanging on irrationally long. But today, it’s football weather, gorgeous weather, and one feels the stirring of one’s blood as locust and birch betray their year’s-end destinies.

Every year it’s easier to see the autumn as a metaphor for my time of life.

This year I am eighty. It has only now dawned on me that when my time comes, there will be no protocol or ceremony. I’ll just leave. All that pertains to me will dry up and blow away in an instant. I may live on in memories for a few years or decades, but that’s all.

It means I’m radically free. 

Suppose I were busy assembling an empire, and only Tierra del Fuego remained beyond my grasp. Should I die with that region unmastered, or should I manage to complete my world first—no matter. When you’re gone, everything and everyone else keeps going. 

That’s how it is. Life is change. 

Whatever is important, all I can do is enjoy it now.

My life is equal parts pleasure and delight. There is little of pain or even mild discomfort, so far. I am content, and Fooboo is pleased to drag me around the block.

Blessings,

Larry F. Sommers

Your New Favorite Writer

09.24.24
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Fall Done Fell

Claudius Ptolemy (c. 100-170 AD), painted by Justus van Gent  (fl. 1460–1480) and Pedro Berruguete  (1450–1504). Public Domain.

For the first time in a very long memory, the meteorological season has coincided with the astronomical season. 

Our weather here in Madison, Wisconsin, does not often change on the dates fixed by Ptolemy and other stargazers. 

But this year we got our first fall chill smack dab on Sunday, September 22, the autumnal equinox. On the very day when the plane of Earth’s equator passed through the geometric center of the Sun’s disk, the temperature dropped twenty degrees, from 87 to 67. 

(We Americans still use Daniel Fahrenheit’s old-fashioned degrees. The Celsius scale, which we used to call Centigrade, is more logical. But what are the chances we’d do something that makes sense?)

Raspberries coming ripe.

Highs are expected to stay below 80 for the next ten days at least. Nighttime lows, for now, should remain well above 32 degrees, the freezing point of water. That’s good, because the fall raspberries are coming on strong. I’m picking two or three cups each day. I eat them on my breakfast oatmeal. My wife has already made some of them into freezer jam.

Accusatory wood.

I’d hate to see these raspberries cut short by Jack Frost, the silent assassin.

Other signs of fall are in the air. The geese, not yet in full flight southward, are assembling into fairly large vees and making test flights. They’ll be off soon. 

Pumpkins, still frost-free.

Some logs I acquired in midsummer now sit on our wood rack, uttering silent reproach for my not having split them yet. Time to hone the axe.

I think the fall is the finest season here. The weather may be warm, sparkling, and sunny; or it may be cool, misty, arboreal. In any case it’s always beautiful until the hammer comes down in late October or early November. Then the winds will pick up, slicing icily through everyone and everything. Winter will not be far behind. 

Kale, a real team player.

Soon, the frost will be on the pumpkins. It’s comforting to know the kale in our garden will still be producing fresh leaves when snow is on the ground. It’ll be good in soup.

Blessings,

Larry F. Sommers

Your New Favorite Writer

09.10.24
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Changeover

It’s headed back to the 80s now, but we had a cold snap a couple of days ago. Daytime highs in the 60s, down to the low 40s at night.

That was First Notice. This happens almost every year in late August or early September. 

My back-fence neighbor is firing up his grill again, so hardy is his hope. But summer will soon expire, and there is nothing you can do about it. Portents of autumn are everywhere. 

A cheeky squirrel. Photo by Charles J. Sharp, licensed under CC-BY-SA-4.0.

Sparrows and starlings have begun to flock. Twenty or so turkeys marched down our block this morning. More than half were this year’s poults. 

Thousands of squirrels have jacked up their metabolisms. They’re getting cheeky. One ran right up to me this afternoon as I sat in my lawn chair reading. When he belatedly saw me for what I am, he retreated only a few feet and made a narrow circle around me.

This is no time for a squirrel to be faint of heart. The harvest is upon us.

Our raspberries—slim pickins back in June and July—now look like making a bumper crop of luscious red fruit in the September cycle. That’s assuming the weather holds. We could have highs in the 80s for a couple more weeks, maybe even three or four. And we’ll keep getting berries until there’s a hard frost at night. That could be sometime in October, if we’re lucky.

Football, to be kicked. Photo (cropped) by AleXXw, licensed under CC-BY-SA-3.0-AT.

What we’re experiencing now, by the way, is not Indian Summer. That comes later, in the fall, if there should happen to be a warm spell after the frost comes. Right now, we’re still in summer. 

But summer’s lease, as the Bard of Avon reminds us, hath all too short a date.

Those football guys are kicking their oblate spheroids again, so it’s only a matter of time before the hammer comes down for good.

Make sure you’ve got a good warm coat.

Blessings,

Larry F. Sommers

Your New Favorite Writer