Fall Down the Hole

Fall is my favorite time of year. First, because of the weather (although we could cool it on the rain now). Second, because the smell always makes me feel young. Or at least younger.


The only sadness I feel when changing out my closet from all the shorts I never wore (because I hate shorts) for jeans and sweaters is when I lovingly place my flip flops (nine pairs) farther back on the shoe rack. Except my Puma's. My Puma's are all weather flip flops. Don't touch my Puma's.

On the other hand, I'm finally going to purchase Hunters to replace my wellies that bit the dust last season. Important decision: Robin's Egg Blue, or Butter Yellow? If I'm going to invest in Hunters, I cannot afford to make a mistake in this department.


This also means my super comfy, if not totally flattering, thick gray sweater is coming out of summer hibernation. I apologize to the village of Bay for how often you will see me in it. I mean I'm REALLY sorry...not sorry enough not to wear it.

But the majority of my Swan's Way moments occur in the fall...do you people know Proust's Swan's Way? I think I mention it a lot, but this is because it is Scott's and my inside joke from a Literature course we took together in the The College Years. It's (IMO) the most horrible book ever written that one is forced to read in a Literature class. The entire first chapter is about macaroons. Okay, it's actually about how smells hold the most vivid memories for people, which I get, but I don't need an entire chapter on macaroons to drive it home. P.S. Guess who didn't think it was the most horrible book ever written? Our professor.


I digress. Shocking!

Like the other day, someone was burning leaves despite being against city ordinances. This is not the most pleasant smell in the world, but I kind of like it anyway. Much like the smell of horse manure is a little slice of heaven for me. Burning leaves is definitely NOT against city ordinances where I come from, which is definitely NOT a city. Burning leaves make me think of high school football games. High school football games make me think of parking cars back in the fields with Matt Rossini.


Not "parking" in cars. Parking cars. As in, we didn't have lines in our gravel parking lot and had to also use the neighboring field, which required National Honor Society students (because, frankly, who else would agree to this) to wave their hands around and instruct all the rednecks how to park straight and pack it in. (And I say redneck very lovingly here).

It also makes me think of catching leaves blowing from the tree line with my little brother. Seriously, hours of entertainment.. Until Charlie and BJ showed up and started pelting us with acorns, that is. Then we would play some semblance of football that mostly involved us saying "Hut, Hut" and the dog going crazy tackling us before we could say "Hike." (Are those even the right words?)


Later it meant deciding whether to wear a coat or tough it out on the Slant Walk between South Quad and Uptown; pulling 50 plus manes to get our nags and ponies ready to host a regional horse show where we would kick OSU and Lake Erie's butts because they didn't know how to ride our reject school horses (I pity the fool that drew Boomer or Rusty); and shivering around a keg on the front porch of Pour House (who doesn't name their house?) or a U Commons balcony because we were never ready to move the parties indoors.

I took Zoe on an apple picking field trip this Wednesday out in the ol' Firelands. We pulled in to my parent's afterwards and I swear my dad could have been Grandpa "HB" Kirschner. But not because he looked old. I was suddenly remembering my grandpa from when I was a toddler in his flannel shirts, smoking a pipe while he putzed around in the woods. He would have a fire in the wood burner in the barn and we would watch the dogs run back in forth in their kennel (first Lady and later Jake). If we were lucky (and we usually were where Grandpa was concerned) he'd fire up the minibike and give us a ride. It should be noted that I was probably wearing a hand-me-down navy blue coat with fur around the hood from cousin Rachel/Katie.


My dad has inherited two main things. One of which is not dark and wavy hair. The first is grandpa's hands. I noticed this when he set about getting crumbs off the breakfast table on Sunday. Very Beaches. But more prominently, my dad has inherited my grandfather's three speeds: Sunday Putzing, Putzing, and Quick Putzing. The last of which is only used when he still has to clean up his latest home improvement project before people come over or getting a dead cat out of the barn before the girls find it.

Coming soon...the craziness of the Halloween season. Yes, it is no longer a day. It is a season.