Deals with changing seasons.

(Published in the Macon Telegraph October 14, 1996)



From Changing Leaves to football to fairs, fall is a very special time of the year.



As the days become shorter and temperatures are dropping, we know that fall is here. In the past few days with air conditioners off, and the windows open, it has been cool enough for blankets to be used at night. Some leaves have started changing and soon will burst forth in their magnificent fall colors. A friend told me a few years ago that he thinks of the changing leaves as coming from God’s paint brush at work. I like that way of looking at it.

What is it about this time of year that is so exhilarating? Could it be memories of fall days of the past or events forthcoming that I love so? High school, college, and pro football teams once again are battling on gridirons on Friday nights, Saturday and Sunday.

In addition, numerous arts and crafts shows are eagerly awaiting folks to browse their wares. Halloween and Thanksgiving are just around the corner. These traditional family times are a big part of the magic that gets us set for the biggest holiday of the year,Christmas.

Several years ago after a retreat in Sky Valley, I drove through the north Georgia Mountains to Rossville to spend the weekend with some friends. A lot of leaves had fallen and literally covered the road in an array of colors. Driving through that beauty, all I missed was someone to share it with.

This time of year we can all experience this high if we just take a few moments to sit back and enjoy. This is real therapy without a price tag. A poem by Bliss Carman called “A Vagabond Song” sums it up best:

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.
There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.