I have Popsicle toes
... because I wore sandals
... because it's still September
... but it's already fall.
Mother Nature laughs at my efforts to sport my summer wardrobe, at least until October. This week she sent bright white clouds scudding across deep-blue skies outside my cubicle window. As if to drive her point home, it's been more than a tich nippy in the often stuffy newsroom.
Don't get me wrong. I am not a summer lover. In fact, it's my least favorite season. It's just that my feet haven't caught on that their days in the sun are over for this year.
Were I writing from my cozy cottage, there would be thick woolen socks upon my tootsies. I'd also be sporting a purring, moggy neckwarmer. Squiggy does not enjoy being cold. In fact, she detests it with the same hostility I reserve for triple-digit temperatures. The venerable feline would be nestled on my chest, atop the soft, pink afghan throw. And I would be forced to type around her ample form.
She really couldn't care less, as long as I don't disturb her interminable catnaps. And continue to radiate heat.
Aside from my purple toes, I am welcoming the slight chill in the air. Especially at night.
Fellow girlfriends of a certain age will relate when I say cooler nights make for sweeter sleeping.
Ever notice how everything looks different in the fall? Sunlight now enters the living room from a lower angle — all the better to illuminate the massive stained-glass flamingo hanging in the front window. Shimmering rose-colored shadows stream across the living room. They play across our bodies like dancing rainbows.
Even the clouds seem more accessible. And more fanciful. Above the hillside floats an angel wing. Just to the west is a rocking horse. Sunsets glow in brighter shades of pink and orange. Stars shoot farther across the dark night skies. The man in the moon has taken on a deeper golden hue.
Like me, the trees surrounding my riverside cottage have yet to don their fall wardrobe. But soon the green lawn will be carpeted with bright yellows and flaming reds.
Canada geese honk directions to the newbie flock members as they practice formation flying up and down the Rogue River. Crows flock around my feeders, their raucous caws at odds with the mourning doves' gentle coos. Soon the rowdy black birds will begin their forays into neighboring nut trees.
Scents change, too, when the seasons do. 'Tis time for simmering kettles of French onion soup, slow-cooked pot roasts, pumpkin pies with golden crusts and cinnamon-spiced apple cider. Oh, oven, how I have missed you.
The brisk fall air invigorates my senses. Soon I'll don my boots and take a walk. I'll inhale the drifting scent of wood smoke. I'll wave at the geese as they pass overhead. I'll shuffle through piles of golden leaves. And I won't miss my sandals at all.
Reach reporter Sanne Specht at 541-776-4497 or firstname.lastname@example.org.