First Days of Fall

There wasn’t anything that seemed out of place, a little different, out of the ordinary, or just odd. The same hush drifted between the stacks of books, quiet rustling of newspaper occasionally reminded me that someone else was close by, hard heeled shoes echoed on the tiled lobby floor and the soft ding announced the arrival of the elevator, main floor, home of Higher Grounds Café. Kim, the owner, worked behind the counter arranging a small platoon of canisters filled with Green Mountain coffees. Sweet vanilla roast stirred a memory of early summer when I religiously stood each morning at the door of the Saratoga Library. The angle of the morning sun was about the same as it had been then, but the feeling was different. The second day of fall. Forget summer, where has the year gone?


I’m filled with guilt. I pissed away the year using one excuse after another not to write. Would a real writer do such a thing if she intended on making a living putting thoughts on paper, arranging sentences, devising plot, and molding characters?

Sitting in Dunkin Donuts with my brother, Mike, and my father we talked about my book. The conversation, although brief, made me realize how much of my Great Mexican Novel, The Kayak, has been developed. I just got to get it down on paper and quit worrying about how good or bad it might be. It can’t be either unless it is written.

I came to the library to escape from my newest project, a little cedar box I picked up in Vermont last weekend. The twelve dollar box was a toy box made in San Francisco, CA. Maybe it was once filled with blocks or trains. Given the two Allied Van inventory stickers on the back side, the previous owner moved it at least twice, before the box finally landed in a combination junkyard-antique shop outside of Woodstock.
I’ve been by the place several times on the way to Robin’s cabin in Littleton, New Hampshire. It was Sunday evening when I noticed the old garage still opened after most vendors rolled up the quaint sidewalks of this New England town. My brother asked me if I would like to stop. I couldn’t help but say yes and I found the dusty cedar box in need of a new finish.

The last weekend of summer was cool but sunny making a perfect day for the Littleton Arts Festival. However poor organization, advertising and current economic conditions turned out a small number of exhibitors and even fewer buyers. Jennifer and Darryl
set out a booth just beyond the ramp to the cover bridge. A shroud of vapors hung over the river like lost souls searching for their resting place before day’s break sent a sparkling ray into the shallow waters.

Summer rains have kept the maples’ colors at bay. A splash of red on the sumac, faint yellow on the beech and poplar touched on the edges of ponds and fields, but the North Country has yet to paint the mountains in brilliance. The older trees held to their green foliage, while the younger gave way to a new pallet as once long days receded in the place where mountains tuck the sun in by 4 PM on the winter solstice.

In fourteen days, I’ll have Pacific breezes between my toes and a new desk to sit at.

Once upon a time…