Nothing Endures but Change

Fall fell fast this year. In just one week, I went from the sun warm on my back as I sat in the massively flowering herb garden, to biting winds nipping my ears as I put the garden to bed. All that’s left are the burgundy sumac, the deep purple aster and the quickly fading orange mums. The pinks, whites, yellows and blues of summer are compost. All the fruit has fallen from the trees. The few bees and wasps left are sluggish. The geese are loudly announcing their intentions of flying south as their feathered cousins remain to brave our winters and loose their bright summer plumage. They stay close to the house and the abundant food I put out for them. Sitting atop a coneflower, a no longer golden Goldfinch shook its feathers to fullness and braced itself for the next chilling breeze as a Blue Jay crabbed about the decimated state of the suet. Today a cold, autumn rain falls and summer is definitely past tense.

Mouse Proud

The house is now being overrun with mice seeking asylum from the cold, as well. I admonished the cats for not earning their keep. They looked at me blankly, as usual. But, for once, they were listening.

Morning activities now include making coffee, filling kibble bowls for my eager feline friends, wiping hairball mush from quivering human feet and picking up mouse corpses from around the house. There’ve been a few that closely resembled the evil rodent creatures from the Princess Bride’s Bog of Eternal Stench. They were all gray fur, vicious teeth, snarling continence and stiff, well-muscled limbs. Two of our most prolific hunters, Andra (Scots Gaelic for strong one) and Maude (named after Maude Gonne MacBride, the Irish revolutionary), take particular joy in their exploits. They both have lithe, hunters’ bodies, huge eyes and a deep love of the nocturnal chase. I have heaped much praise on them and try not to wince as I pick up the rigored rodent bodies.

One cat, the beloved and well-waddled Cash (named after the man in black) is terrified of the mice. He’s always been a sensitive boy. Loud noises, pungent tastes and too rigorous rubs send him running down the hallway, belly swaying to and fro like a water balloon pendulum.

Wherever mice have been slain, Cash cowers and then runs off, eyes enormous until he is comforted. He’s such a huge thing yet he leaves the rough work of defending the household to the ladies. But, give him a fake mouse and his talons will have it shredded in no time. He’s quite fierce with faux prey. I give him much praise even though his efforts don’t aid the vermin war. He’s quick to role on his back for a good rub of his vast belly. The charming Cash still has bald spots around his nipples from allowing some orphaned kittens suckle on him for comfort. A little role reversal not unprecedented in the Jordan casa. And charm goes a long way when you’re not a cunning killer.

This mouse killing experience is much more pleasant than an experience I had many years ago. I was in the backroom of a store where many odd items from all over the world were sold. This included birdseed, a foodstuff all mice crave. Cheese… bah! It’s the sunflower, millet and cracked corn the little tikes want. As I put my coat on, getting ready to leave, a prized ring flew from my finger and landed under a shelf stuffed full of bags of seed. I reached my hand under, patting the floor for my ring. I found it. The ring and one of those evil glue pads the company had placed to catch the offending mice. I pulled my hand out and firmly attached to my left hand was a glue pad with the rotting corpse of a mouse on it. Oh, and my ring. That glue pad did not want to come off. To the disgust of my co-workers, their help was needed to free me from this bizarre and retrospectively amusing torment. I haven’t felt quite the same about that ring since then. Go figure.

Familiar Future Flowers

Fall brings with it an inevitable paper bag full of spring blooming bulbs that my Mom wants in the ground. The cold, sometimes frozen, ground. My sister and I head out into the tundra wearing sweaters, leather jackets and old jeans as we try to remember where all the old bulbs are. We usually remember when we split them with a trowel. Within five minutes, noses will be running, hair will be tousled and hands will be red. The birds yell at us from their perches in the trees, telling us to get the hell away from their seed. And, bit by bit, we get the bulbs in. Every year my Mom swears she won’t buy any more, every year she does. Another family tradition.

This ritual is wrapped around a faint promise of a spring that proceeds winters that quickly erase it from our minds. And with this life affirming ceremony would be followed by a ceremony full of morbidity. Ah, the wonderful ghoulishness that was Halloween.

The Spook Sisters

My parent’s house is perfect for a haunted mausoleum with its stone walls and dead flowers. My sister Dianne and I always had one goal in mind as we spread webs and carefully placed skulls. To scare the crap out small children. My brother Paul was on board and built us three coffins. One adult size, one child size and one cat size. These were stained to look old, moldy and oh so recently brought above ground. The biggest one opened and Dianne and I set about creating a creature that would creep from within to terrify all that dared step onto the porch/mortuary.

Our theme expanded to a bride and groom couple, decayed yet still waiting for the walk down the aisle. I tracked down the most disgusting fake bugs that could find and I made sure they had a wonderful slime coating for the big night. Wherever young hands were most likely to come into contact with the house, there was a bug. We worked with the lighting, made a giant spider for the roof and put chains up for a torture chamber effect. Some kids wouldn’t even approach the house. They stood at the end of the long driveway while a laughing parent went to retrieve the Trick or Treat bounty. We loved it. But, every year, we grew busier and busier in fall and less and less went up. Last year, it was one skull. One freaking skull. What’s the point of that? Mere token terror. The end of the dread fest at the Jordan Casa. We even gave the coffins away. And, yes, someone took them. What a sad goodbye that was… Well, not really. It was just a pain in the ass getting those things up form the basement. It was more of a joyous good riddance from there.

The new tradition for the parent’s house involves insulation and removable caulk. I’ve made solid plans to clean the gutters, wash the windows from the outside and get all of the debris to the dump before winter. When did I develop this practical streak? What is happening to me? Now I worry about the driveway being well lit enough for the kids and I’m concerned about whether they’ll be warm enough. Such a wide scale need to nurture is new to me. Maybe someone’s slipping something into my morning coffee…

Fall Good-byes

As the leaves brighten before they fall, I have to say goodbye to the farmer’s market and it’s wonderful sights and smells, driving with the window open and the music blaring. My music will change to winter music, too. My summer girls are replaced with winter boys. Jeff Buckley and John Coltrane are on high rotation.

Floral dresses are packed away and sweaters are pulled out. They smell funky after being cooped up for so long. That stale winter house smell I loathe. I’ve already got my leathers on and I’ve actually wrapped a scarf around my neck. And I’m wondering where in the hell I put my gloves.

When I looked up at the sky this afternoon, the clouds were pushed up high in the sky, where they’ll stay until spring. I’m already hitting the alarm in the dark and driving to work with the sun barely glinting over horizon. I’ll miss the sun.

Winter means short gray days and long dark nights with all of the cats gathered around me like children eager to hear a good story. It means hot tea, blue moonlight shadows on white snow dunes, and slushy streets. It means scraping the car every morning and a truly horrible driving experience as I make my way to work.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. There will be a few glum days ahead that will find me complaining bitterly about the endless winter, but you won’t find me moving to the Sunbelt. Maybe it’s the Scots blood in me, but cold weather does little to sway me to the charms of Floridian existence. I love the cycle of life the seasonal changes epitomize. With the quickly fading autumn joy sedum of fall is the enfolded secret of the spring crocus. I hold Mother Nature to Her promise and don’t begrudge Her need for slumber.

I Was So Desperately Wrong.

Well, this is what I get for waxing nostalgic about autumn. I walked on crunchy grass to get to my truck yesterday; the skies were a murky gray. By the time I left in the afternoon it was eighty-two degrees and the sky was a deep blue with big, puffed out white clouds. There were about a katrillion ladybugs scooting through the air, the bees woke up and softly lilting through the warm air, I heard the sound of snickering.

"Yeah, ha ha!" I said. "Think you’re so funny."

I’d written this whole article and She (Mother Nature) decided to remind me of Her contrary nature. I considered scrapping the whole column and then thought, "No, I’ll let this stand as a testament to my pompous assumption that weather is a static force."

Looking out the window right now I can see the same beautiful blue-sky setting off the oranges and yellows of the trees. I drove to work with the window of my truck open and music blaring. The sun was warm on my back as I walked in. I’m sitting behind a desk in front of a computer and I might be a tad bitter.

I feel like sticking my tongue out at Mom Nature, but I won’t. I may be impulsive but I am no fool. If I stuck my tongue out, it would snow tomorrow. I’m sure of it…