Autumn Leaves

The most subtle memories of summer linger in the outlines of autumn leaves, their colors just a simple whisper. These leaves will linger long after the season passes, and there's no need to rake them up or set the kids to shoveling them out from under the hedge.

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A friend of mine likens autumn to a state of incredible transition. Harvests are tended, sometimes for the last time until a field goes fallow. Homesteads are secured, storm windows are hung. Rain gutters are tested for leaks, to stand ready for the winter. With a last sigh, we stow swimsuits and light linen outfits and check our closets for wool and heavy flannel. It is a transitional state of the year, and some find it a comfort. Some find it a pain in the tush.

This same friend hates cold weather. She would like nothing more than to hibernate from Labor Day until Memorial weekend, and would if she could. But since she cannot (they'd probably miss her at work), she busies herself with preparations, as if the shortening of the days spells impending doom. She hauls out quilts and fluffs them as if her life depends on it. She frets that her furnace will fail. She obsesses over fall outfits. She panics if she doesn't have appropriate matching purses to go with this season's warm boots. Her coats will be the latest and greatest available for the utmost warmth possible, the newest materials on the market.

Now, this would make perfect sense if we happened to live in a place like Fairbanks, Alaska or even upstate New York, where the change of seasons is marked with falling leaves, falling snow, icy sidewalks and slush up to our ankles. But she lives in the desert. (So do I - about three blocks away.) She's lived here about 18 years; I've been here about 20. We both know what the desert winter will be like, but some of us panic more than others.

It might have gotten down to 60 degrees Fahrenheit last night. Dreadfully miserable winter is upon us.