Silverware Thief

[Note: This week I was doing cleanup and going through my old pads of note paper. On one pad, stuck in among some other writing, I found this short descriptive essay. It had no date attached and I can’t recall exactly what year I wrote it. It was probably about four years ago, and I don’t think it ever saw the light of day, until now. Looking at what I had written, I didn’t find it as good as I would have liked. It lacked a certain smooth flow, and as a descriptive essay it didn’t quite fully invoke the panorama of an autumn day with as much force as it could. Nonetheless, even being less than a perfect essay it still managed an evocative touch and brought back to my mind the day I had written it. I always enjoy the ability of writing to bring things into the mind’s eye, so I touched it up and decided to share this peice of old writing.]

Right now, it is one of those glorious late afternoons in the early autumn.

People will sometimes ask, “What is the country like?” This is the country life, I would say to them, and show them this day. Country living is the golden sunshine, the fading light of autumn that sings of relaxation. Like the end of a long day of work so autumn is the end of summer, the season speaking of ends, and rest.

On the hillside the leaves are just beginning to color, the first frost having not yet come, this being a warm year. The air is not hot, but not cold either, a temperature almost unfelt, leaving the senses to dwell on other things.

Sitting in the easy chair on the porch, I can see the final pink and purple Asters in front of the porch. The garden is beginning to die back up on the hill. The corn is long gone, drying out in yellowish brown stalks. The squash is almost finished and the tomatoes are hurrying in. Too bad most of the apple blossoms were killed this spring by a late frost. Otherwise we would now have a wonderful harvest of apples. As it is, there are only a few apples hanging on the tress, red and delicious, reminders of what we are missing.

The entire scene lies below a blue sky dotted with those proverbial fluffy white clouds. Near the porch the bugs buzz and tweet in their continual racket. The cat lies stretched out on the porch, dozing pleasantly. The only annoyance is the flies which seem to be particularly enjoying the warm September.

The air is clear, and not cold yet, but there is that hint of ending for those who can sense it. There are the sings of seasonal change everywhere. Sometimes it can seem sad as to think about the passing of summer. But other times it is beautiful and peaceful. There is rest in the end of things, some beauty in its completion. And in this late autumn afternoon, I see that.