Somewhere, the wind might whistle from the North, and in some cedar room, a shiny cocoa cup reflect a blazing hearth; but not here in Mudville, Texas, on October 30th, 2004, as we droopingly endure the summerest Fall anyone in these parts can recall.
T he breeze is blowing hard from the Gulf, as though to meet bridegroom Autumn on his march here from his boreal habitation, while my wife and I, like foolish virgins, cannot command the oomph to bring out the household scarecrows, as we obey our sensory experience, rather than the ticking calender.
T he Autumn came already, once, to this torrid zone, and the August just previous was the coolest I've ever known in Harris County. Without irreverence, I suppose if we had known the time of our visitation, the Kingdom of Fall would never have departed? But like its Maker, it is certain to return, and that's Scripture: After the Flood, we were promised that times and seasons would never cease, until the end.
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I t's the darndest thing, but since we moved to this more rural setting, God's country seems further removed than ever. We're still in Bellaire, but if you walk through our eastern hedge, you're in a field seventy yards wide or so by miles long, margined with a track running trains tooting whistles from the prairie West. The hawks nest upon the power poles, and after a Wednesday evening church outing with my boy, we returned home to find a bunny grazing merrily in the front yard. As elsewhere in the city, we have possums aplenty, squirrels, hummingbirds, cardinals, and woodpeckers; and we've just recently become a lizard-hunting ground for some species of crane. Given the proper climatic conditions, fog trails upon our eastern moor. But for some reason I'm not enjoying this proximity as much as I did when we lived some blocks away, and my yard was segregated from the field by the power-company fence.
P art of this unusual malaise would seem to stem from a Saharan wallet, and the consequent drought of vacation. As long ago as September of 2003 I was planning, with the aid of the Reader's Digest Book of Scenic Wonders, a drive to California through the desert West, and as recently as last May I was gazing at Flagstaff hotels on Expedia. A mighty king of the Jews saith, "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick," and I can go along with that. I believe that the furthest we've gotten since a six day Virginia whirlwind two summers ago, is Montgomery, Texas,barely beyond our own county line. Last Thanksgiving and Christmas were extremely local, and these upcoming look, at press time, mighty similar. |
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T he trees haven't turned, but I'll bet they're ready, and I don't expect the squirrels to be caught short in the nut department; while Diane, who hails from the fiery Appalachians, feels the heat on her skin, but hears the Blue Ridge call and thinks she "should have been home yesterday". In short, she is become restless, and I, incognizant, am too. The 1,001 things to do seem more than I can do, but I figure I will struggle through, when she perches on my lap and announces, "I want to go to Dewberry Farm!". "Okay," I wisely say - it's Saturday - and I begin to make preparations for the outing at my usual snail's pace.
Finally, all is ready, meaning me, and off we go, a sizeable portion of The CommonPlace Retinue, including dependents: Our Publisher, our Poetry & Fiction Editor, our GameCube Analyst, and his best friend Michael, the son of our Web Host.
E xcept...We're really hungry, and we're gonna have to do something about that immediately.The only possible recourse is to head for Sonic, which we do. They get you there with pictures, and with "NEW!" On this occasion, what is New since last occasion is Lots. The same wallet that demanded no vacation has also been pretty stingy about burger outings. But here we have Toasters, both Pepper Jack and Cheddar melts, a Steak, Egg, and Cheese Burrito, and some kind of Apple Pie Float Shake? |
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C learly, I'll
have to sample each of these scrumptious (per the picture on the menu board) taste treats,
and expense be hanged. After all, that's what credit cards are for, right? |
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 I n perfect Justice, let it here be said: |
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