The farmers are happy. An organic farmer at the farmer's market said if first frost hits before October, he's sunk, and with him my source for sweet red peppers with just a tiny hint of spice. So as much as I want the fall to come and the chill to creep in, I'm going to wish for a warm September. Each season seems to last just long enough that I want the next one to come. It's the transitions that I love, changes in smells and sensations on the skin, a warm day with the cool breeze from an incoming storm.
What can I say?
I'm a northern boy.
High 70s makes me sweat. Give me a seat on the porch with a cup of coffee or cider in a 50 degree drizzle, with stew in the crock, seasoned with bay leaf and clove. September always seems strange to me, the angle of the sun is never quite right for the waning heat, and the light hits things at the wrong angle. Conflicting signals.
Tonight I was going to talk about the casino moving in. They're tearing down the defunct racetrack and replacing it with a casino. They claim they'll bring 2000 jobs or somesuch overly hopeful number held out to a city with 1/5 of people out of work.
But I've changed my mind. I'll talk about that another day. I got sidetracked early and talked down a rabbit hole. I'll worry about it tomorrow. Or the next day.
Today the air is sweet and watery, and the games of Sorry! and Uno are freshly lost to a five year old who is now sleeping with one leg off the bed and the other tangled in the covers. In the morning his tiny brother will climb from his bed to his brother's bed and will curl up briefly by his brother's head, sharing the pillow, singing a wordless song like he does every morning.