As someone who has written every day for most of his life (from age 14), getting a topic about which to write is seldom a task.  This morning however I deliberated beyond my normal 15 minutes and decided instead to do other things for the remainder of the day before tackling the manuscript. I contemplated everything from humour to war to bodily functions.

But it wasn’t until I awoke to an obvious detail that I found my treasure.  Today is the 15th of August.  Everything about me – the bountiful corn fields, the cooling atmospheric temperature, the yellow flowers in the distant field, the returning retail congregations in the city – they all point to one salient fact: the summer is nearly over!  And as much as you may protest that there still remains Indian Summer (if that’s not now too gauche an idiom for popular usage) or that October can prove to be a very fine month, the middle of August marks the dénouement, the downward projection of all things summer. Not atypically summer is – for those of us devoted to other than farming – a time for vacation, recreation and events with family (cottages, weddings, travel); it is golfing, boating and fishing.  It all transpires when the weather is fine and desirable.  But as soon as the advent of schooling arises on the horizon and the air is overnight crisper, everything else changes! It’s then about getting ready for classes – a cosmetic alternative directed more to the person involved than to the subject of study.  Shopping replaces the allure of doing anything on the lake no matter how romantic.

Though it does not matter that there is a shift away from strictly summer habits, it stands as a more pensive seasonal change than, say, winter or spring. The lapse into autumn is a sometimes mournful process – one which historically has been both evocative and inspiring. The biological and agricultural shifts of their own nature similarly predict a decline. It becomes a time to rediscover your favourite woollen sweater; safely to adapt to sweat pants; contemplate switching footwear; vaguely thinking of snow removal from the car mats (and wondering whether the premium carpets and/or the rubber replacements ought to be ordered from GM), finally staring at my desk for more than required, then admitting there is nothing to be done – just put on that sweater and read a good book.

As fortune would have it, there is no immediate rush for me to fulfill the transition from summer to fall (though I must confess the overnight temperature drop and the crispness of everything in sight has unwittingly invoked its own irreversible and mesmeric drama). Insinuating Nature’s impositions and alterations may be precipitous; but there is no value in delay. Yet having to convince others is at times no small task.  I say “others” because I haven’t (yet) to endure dread; so, frankly, there is nothing either good or bad (about any change) that overwhelms me negatively. But transitions are for some a metaphorical adjustment of insurmountable obstacles.  It is I reckon useless to urge others to forego and forget. Jumping the line freshly subscribed is treacherous at best for those who have suffered the sometimes violent content of change and metamorphosis. Nor does it help to dismiss the infection – that only makes a mockery of the aspirant. The best we can do is sit and shut up.

We have only lately suffered unimaginable losses – a young boy who fell off his bicycle and was crushed to death beneath a passing school bus; a young woman upon whom a rogue branch fell from a tree, striking her and causing damages from which she never survived – and we know some of the family involved – so the losses affect us all deeply. It is a sad community affair. How to assist those who have carried the burden of such loss is impossible.

It was about these and other matters that I pondered today, wondering how I might deliver to you, my dear Reader, some small board from which to spring. Or should I say, to Autumn; or, to Winter?