This is no hoax. Time does march on.
Like it or not, Autumn is rapidly approaching.
Don't call me "Chicken Little," I have proof.
There are signs every where.
For instance, the sun is now long set when the boys come home from soccer practice at 8:30 in the evening. Only a few weeks ago, we ate dinner in the backyard after their arrival and lingered over toasted marshmallows and ice-cold Kokane. We had to shield our eyes from the annoying rays of the damn thing, for crying out loud. If we plan to dine al fresco this week, Mr. Bon is going to have to drag out the shop lamp so we can see to fire up the grill.
Nature is conspiring to gang up on me. The tree in my front yard is dropping subtle little reminders that one season is ending and another beginning. Every morning, I have to make a new path through the carpet of the little tear-drop leaves that fell from our Honey Locust the day before. I must take care though, for through the night the hundreds of spiders that call our yard home, cast their silky strands to and fro along the path, creating a veritable obstacle course of sticky filaments.
The annual flirtation with a possible post-season appearance by the Mariners is also underway. As per usual, Seattlites are all-a-dither (read: delirious) with talk of the Wild Card Race and Division Championship. Needless to say that in Seattle, nothing says Autumn like an 8-game losing streak in the crucial days of the pennant race.
And just this morning,
I sent my boy off to his first day of High School.
