Vacation

The luminous orb that is the moon seems fixed to the center of the sky, and weightless clouds float underneath its brilliance like airy waters passing from continent to continent. The wind is chilly for once, and fall is flaunting. It is a good season - one I enjoy more than any other.

Carmel apples have been plentiful at a nearby orchard, although I hear the apples came from Michigan this year. Winter - you may remember - found its way back into the party after being put to bed - interrupting a strange surge of warmth. So, the apple trees around here didn't fare well this year, at least not enough to supply the 21st apple festival at Reid's Orchard. But, pay no mind, apples are always delicious under the copper blanket of carmel.

So, I have been enjoying those carmel apples, almost one a day lately, which will both keep the dentist away and the dentist in business.

For her part, Anna would rather have the cider - by the gallon or in a frozen slurpee mixture. Wyatt too likes the slurpee.

God, I love fall. Thanks for creating it - for the good occasion to remember a hard season past, for a time when work turns to joy. I've put the mower away for a brief spell and taken to the rake and shovel - working until I break a sweat underneath the thick cotton of my long t-shirt and the warm embrace of my new hat.

I was turning back the excessive growth of grass upon the sidewalk and driveway yesterday. It was a job whose time was much overdue, but I have only recently procured an edger to do the deed. So, with the half moon blade beneath my feet, I pushed into the dirt ... once, twice, perhaps fifty times until a neat, linear line had been set against organic chaos. At the end of creating a long row of trimmed grass, like discarding excess icing from a cake, I bent low to pick at the remaining roots. The smell was rich from the four day rain that fell upon the land - musty. Deep browns and blacks hid a filthy matter that repelled and attracted me, the death and life of humus.

Inside I've been painting, lots of painting. Got smart about it this time and prepared properly: drop cloth, and painter's tape, primer and good rollers. All told, it's probably going to equate to one and a half rounds of primer and one, good round of semi-gloss, acrylic, marsh-green coat of paint. Our walls finally look modern, and our house is - inch by inch - creeping into a home that reflects us instead of Lucy and Ricky.

The smells in here are strong like the soil, but this is noxious. I have drunk the toxicity of the fumes far too long today, so much so that my head is swimming beneath the harsh oils and chemicals.

Did I mention that I've been reading Stephen King lately. Actually, just the last two weeks. I've been steadily marching through his less popular stuff: his short stories. The book I'm reading is titled Different Seasons and consists of four novellas for each season. Spring is Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption and Fall is The Body - both of which have been made into motion pictures. Spring is easy enough to remember for anyone who enjoys watching movies or has TNT. Fall is equally famous, although the title is different: Stand By Me.

That's the story I'm reading right now: The Body (or Stand By Me ... however, you choose to remember it). I watched the movie today as well - good movie, better story. King has this fabulous line in the novella, which Rob Reiner chose to use as the capstone of his film:

"I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?"

Great question. My friends at age 12 where fellas I'd still go to bat for: Smithers, Super-C, Levenhagen, Gray, Moore Brothers, and Petrin.

Coincendentally (and wonderfully), one of those friends - the one and only T. A. Smithers - is headed this way tomorrow morning - when I'm still sleeping off the paint fumes. It reminds me of that other King novella - The Shawshank Redemption - and one of my favorite movie lines of all time: "I guess I just miss my friend."

Amen.

Keep rollin' clouds. I got to gets me through the night, and then it is into long waiting of hope - the state that is longer than any emotion.

Wes