While I wasn’t paying attention, autumn happened. I’m not sure exactly when, but the telltale signs are there, the most noticeable of which is that the towels and washcloths in the bathrooms have changed color. This is via some wife-decorator sorcery that happens twice a year. One summer morning the towels are light blue and then, without warning, they are red. They’ll stay red until someday next spring, when they will again be light blue.
The explanation has something to do with the color making me feel as if the temperature is warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer than it actually is. That’s a bit of a mystery to me, since I take almost all of my showers indoors, where I enjoy the constant comfort of heat and air conditioning regardless of the weather or season.
I’m pretty sure the color of my towel is not a contributor to my level of comfort, but if the boss says it is, that’s how I will testify. I can’t argue with this. I mean I probably shouldn’t, so I don’t. I have neither decorator credentials nor decorating experience, not counting the perfect placement of Harry, the stuffed Canada goose, in my first apartment.
I can’t imagine a greater waste of energy than a spirited discussion of whether the color of a bath towel actually affects ambient temperature. Still, very few married couples could rightly deny that they’ve had conversations as inane as that one during their marriage.
In my house there is another indication of seasonal change and that is the color of the purse my wife carries everywhere. The size of my boot camp-issued seabag, it is a pinky-orange color she calls “coral.” The subject of its color never comes up without my having to say that coral isn’t a color; it’s an animal that comes in many colors. It’s pinky orange. It’s also her warm-weather satchel with a roughly 5-gallon capacity, and one of three large bags she lugs with her wherever she goes. Besides the pinky-orange one, she curates six others of an identical design in different colors, plus another in pinky orange just in case. Of what I’m not certain, but it would have to be catastrophic.
Fall brings a wonderful change to this end of town. Fewer cars, fewer people, fewer bicyclists, fewer joggers, fewer nitwit photographers with vehicles stopped on the bridges to take photos with their cellphones. Those nice folks, the last group of nitwits, should be made aware that I am an old man now, so, for me, the threat of prison time holds little incentive to withhold a generous measure of social justice. I tell you, this loving-my-neighbor business gets more difficult every tourist season. But I’m pretty sure I would repent and ask the Lord’s forgiveness as I watched the aforementioned nitwit climb out of the water and up over the rocks to have his cellphone removed.
Daylight gets more precious as we slide back into the cold end of the calendar. Less daylight means fewer warm days, more of my neighbors’ leaves, less time on the deck with an actual book, more stew, less smoked beef and pork, more cheesecake, less strawberry shortcake, more chamois shirts and fewer tees.
For me, fall is also a busy time on the smokers. From prime rib to chicken wings, there’s something immensely satisfying about smoking a couple of meals worth of protein. Cleanup is a piece of cake, too. That’s an important aspect of pretty much all my kitchen activity. I tend to shy away from those meals where I spend more time cleaning up the mess than doing the actual preparation and cooking. A crisp fall day out on the deck with a smoker going low and slow, sending a smoky aroma around the neighborhood, carrying the promise of something wonderfully tasty in the making — now that’s my kind of cooking.
The most strategic activity, the one that clearly signals the end of summer, is the decommissioning of the lawn mower and the recommissioning of the snowblower. It is a solemn day, one chosen more for the date than for the weather forecast. For this, I rely on my decades of experience more than I rely on the latest meteorological models we hear about from the local television meteorologists. I believe the Farmer’s Almanac gets more respect than those folks.
My television gets turned on daily for what little local news can be found and the weather forecast. It runs for approximately eight minutes of news and weather broken up by 22 minutes of muted ads. Being proud antiques ourselves, “Antiques Roadshow” on Monday nights is the only other time the TV is on. Seriously.
Where was I? Oh, the weather.
Fall leaves, the last mowing, planting bulbs, dog blowing her coat, ice scrapers in the vehicles, summer clothes put away to make room for lined jeans, long-sleeve henleys and Acorn socks while the flip-flop tan on my feet fades to pale. Campers and boats on trailers head home and evening lights in (most) seasonal houses go dark until May. Fewer boats sway at their moorings, fewer cars and trucks idle in restaurant parking areas. Faces return to familiar and they seem to smile more often.
It’s happening again, but how many more autumns it will last is a good question. As Harpswell returns to a community rather than a destination, I give thanks for the peace and the familiar. The shared love of ancestral and cultural connection that still lives quietly on these ledges that are our town is a personal treasure that cannot be bought.
It just can’t.
