how i spent my naptime

I know, totally lame. I'm turning the family blog into the things I write. I'm half way done with this class. We have a love-hate relationship. For example: I just had to write an essay made from anagrams made from my name. WHAT? But actually, I like how it turned out. This isn't it (in case you were wondering). I have no title, yet, for this one, but I think you should be able to figure out what it's about.

PS, Joe says you can't boldly tiptoe, but isn't that what happens in the summer? Summer is bold, and loud, and bright, and then all of a sudden it's August and you don't know where the summer went. It's going to happen in just a few months--you'll see! That is sneaky; that is tip-toeing. What do you think? 

Summer boldly tiptoes into August, and suddenly there is a sense of urgency to prepare for autumn. More trips to the pool, late nights around the campfire, a plethora of family activities (memories must be made!), and a rush to purchase school supplies that are going, going, gone. There are new clothes, the latest in fall fashion, carefully folded and daily admired, sitting on the top shelf of the closet, ready to be worn by children who are eager to reunite with their friends. I, too, watch the calendar, impatiently awaiting the return to a schedule, dreading the 5:30 a.m. alarm, dismayed—and at the same time pleased—that my children insist on getting taller, more independent. They are growing up.

Finally, school starts, and just like that, the days become a little cooler, and the darkness arrives a little earlier. I pull my jeans and sweaters out of storage while humming a thankful tune that boots are back in style, and I am transported to my childhood.

I grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania, where the transition into fall corresponds with the yellowing of the hay fields and the hum of tractors as they finalize their harvests. The hills brighten the horizon with a plethora of leaves the color of fire: red, yellow, and orange. The Amish buggies go clip-clopping by, more briskly than they did in summer; there is work to be done before the first frost arrives.  The air crispens with the aroma of something burnt, decaying leaves, and the whisper that winter is waiting.

In contrast, the old farmhouse is warm, and there is the smell of a gas heater, turned on for the first time in months, mixed with the smell of work: last-minute food preservation of tomatoes, corn, jams, and my very favorite: applesauce.

There are football games to watch, cross-country meets to run. And then, there are holidays! Holidays with their sugary treats and themed decorations. Halloween, with its opportunity to become someone, or something, else for an evening. Thanksgiving arrives much too quickly as we prepare for family who will travel across the country to share food, blessings, and gratitude. There will be leaf-crunching walks in the woods, four wheeler rides, and perhaps most exciting of all: the guns will come out, and clay pigeons will be shot. Finally, there is the promise of magic, when the season will change from vibrant woodsy colors to a white background of snow, naked maple trees, and evergreens in the distance.