Days of Faded Hardwood Glory

The cool edge to the air is expected, and its absence today is noted. The morning sunshine through the big front glass warmed the house to the point the Mrs. thought the heat was on. We'd attended a big hail and farewell party the night before, featuring a cloudless sky and spectacular view of the red moon and goodbyes to folks moving on; such things are no less difficult for being routine after so many years. We'd slept in this morning after last night's big to-do (the eclipse began at 2am our time), and once we were up and about the dogs demanded walking before the coffee had a chance to boil.

Off we went, the Mrs. and I and the big dumb puppy and the crazy little dingo, the four of us through the woods where the multitude of colors on the hardwoods, peaked about one week ago, now approach the unity of pale golden brown. Inevitable. The top branches of some trees are bare, as are all of others. The path under foot is plush-carpeted in leaves; the rich smell of autumn seems fine to me today, as fine as the coffee I'll have back at the house.

No rush, the day is warm with a fine breeze, unbelievably warm for 50 north. But such days are altogether too short this time of year. We get back and drink coffee and read news and the daughter calls. She'd spent the night at a girlfriend’s, with four other girls too. Now it's time to get her, so we hop in the car and cruise the Autobahn, taking the dogs along. They love car rides, of course, and their enthusiasm is strangely contagious. Through forest all the way, with a few spots still at that peak color, those bright yellows, the mellow deep reds, the burnt orange, and the contrast of the evergreens...

Her friend lives alone now with just mom. Five more girls in the house for the night was probably a welcome diversion. Dad's an Army Surgeon deployed to Iraq since May. Daughter's making her way through sophomore year in High School in Germany without him. On the way home my daughter mentions her friend's excitement over her dad's stories. "He got to ride in a Blackhawk!" We say nothing much in reply.

Home again. As previously planned it's bike time. I bought the Mrs. a bike for our anniversary last month. Though she may claim the present is mine, and having her along on rides through the countryside is indeed my pleasure. A hard ride up hill to the ridgeline that runs behind our house brings the reward of the view. And what a view today! Under almost-summer-like warmth of cloudless blue skies (what do the Europeans call Indian Summer?) everyone is out. A large group of older folks volksmarches along; we ring bells and pedal slowly through. Riders on horses, people with dogs, the usually empty road is a bustling thoroughfare on this rare November day.

As we pass a group of parents and young children going the other way I hear a father say something about "balloons". I coast a bit further away then stop and turn. The horizon is dotted with hot air balloons, grey and small in the hazy distance. I've seen them before; they will put down in fields not far from here. But that is still some time away, judging by the distance, and we are moving on, riding along on the top of the world.

The view from those gently floating platforms must be indescribable. The view from the ground is nearly that. A rare day in autumn is a treasure; to have nothing making immediate demands of my time is sweet beyond compare.

I've many things to tell you, but they will wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow when I leave before dawn and return after sunset and consider myself fortunate to be here at all.

Thanks for stopping by.