It's raining a little on the roof above my head. Kind of perfect after a drought punctuating the never-ending wildfires just north of here. After hearing news of the destruction in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, we all wonder if it will settle anytime soon. Dollywood is nearly going up in flames. If you are willing, say a little prayer for those firefighters. I know that they have to be tired. We are smoke's length here and I know we're all tired. I sit here under the roof and sing out for the sky to keep crying. If you are willing, please do a little rain dance tonight before you go to bed.
Looking at the calendar, I realized that November has only one more day. Closing the end of fall's chapter and opening the beginning of winter's. This changing of season is bittersweet, because fall captures me so well. I figure why not see it off the only way I know how, weaving words and pictures that sit prettily on a shelf of memories. Let this be our big love story...
Really, I can't imagine fall any other way.
In modest doses I loved the season when I was growing up. Leaves blowing hurriedly in the street. A destination that I longed for. Putting my allergy to ragweed on the spotlight as I'd make annual trips into the emergency room for breathing treatments. The blur of red, yellow and orange dancing across front porch steps just before the first sprig of holly. I remember it well.
Now, as I am settled here, fall is an experience.
The season takes out its ruddy hands, rubbing them together slowly. Sweaters are pulled onto soft shoulders. Trees prickle the landscape with the artist's color palette. Cider is sipped carefully within warm mugs. Outdoor rocking chairs glide into the late calendar months with ease. I love the feeling of it all. Down to the whispering joy, hidden in deep leaf piles.
Earlier this month we made our way up to the Blue Ridge mountains to enjoy a cabin rental. Since moving here we have made this a steady tradition, and honestly we look forward to it all year long. Before moving to Georgia, I had never stepped foot inside a cabin. Call me naive, or the crazy Kansas girl, your preference. If you haven't yet taken in the mountain scenery within carved wood beams and wide open windows, please let me know. I'll point you in the right direction...Looking at the calendar, I realized that November has only one more day. Closing the end of fall's chapter and opening the beginning of winter's. This changing of season is bittersweet, because fall captures me so well. I figure why not see it off the only way I know how, weaving words and pictures that sit prettily on a shelf of memories. Let this be our big love story...
Really, I can't imagine fall any other way.
In modest doses I loved the season when I was growing up. Leaves blowing hurriedly in the street. A destination that I longed for. Putting my allergy to ragweed on the spotlight as I'd make annual trips into the emergency room for breathing treatments. The blur of red, yellow and orange dancing across front porch steps just before the first sprig of holly. I remember it well.
Now, as I am settled here, fall is an experience.
The season takes out its ruddy hands, rubbing them together slowly. Sweaters are pulled onto soft shoulders. Trees prickle the landscape with the artist's color palette. Cider is sipped carefully within warm mugs. Outdoor rocking chairs glide into the late calendar months with ease. I love the feeling of it all. Down to the whispering joy, hidden in deep leaf piles.
In October we went to a pumpkin patch to have ourselves an experience... hayride, BBQ nachos, apple cake, picking out perfect pumpkins. What we didn't realize was that unseasonably warm temperatures would drive the greater part of Atlanta to the same exact pumpkin patch we landed in. I will say, it was fun. Sometimes you need to sit in long lines to help remind you not to take certain things for granted.
Large talking pumpkins...in case you were wondering, these were just as creepy in person.
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