August Dread

Autumn in the great north shows itself even before the leaves begin to change. One feels it as a tightening in the pit of the stomach. The joke line, "nine months of winter and three months of tough sledding," sets the scene for this August, 2005 journal entry written during one of those heavy overcast and sprinkly summer days.

The Buffalo/Green Bay preseason game drones on as a replay. Green Bay fans are all watching it for the second time! It's August, but it feels like autumn has arrived already. Sigurd Olson's essay "Falling Leaf," from his book Listening Point, captures the dread and awe of autumn in the north. Summer was a nervous guest, coming late and leaving early. We never had a chance to talk before it yielded to the approach of the cold. Falttening like a bulldozer. Heavens, I haven't yet mowed the whole lawn! The aroma of wood smoke drifts into the bedroom window, riding the cold air. Up until yesterday, they were open to relieve the summer heat. We close them now. It is probably the Osborn side of the family that anticipates winter from its first hint. We plan our burials early, too. Still the faintest whiff of winter summons a response deep within us, grief and remorse.

Journal Entry - September 10

You can feel the shift in the seasons today. Even though the equinox is over ten days away, I felt autumn's arrival yesterday. Maybe it was that we started up the furnace as the nightly low approached 40 degrees. Maybe it is that shorts no longer cover enough skin or that a sweatshirt seems a logical addition to the morning wardrobe. It's the rustle of dog feet among the first falling leaves of the maple out front. Something inside said, "yup, it's here." And that was that. You know it in the nostrils, on the skin. The frogs and crickets continue as if nothing has happened. They seem oblivious to the change. I know that autumn took up residence at Cousin's Island last night.