September

 

    Perhaps it’s my imagination. The weather doesn’t know it yet, but September is a dividing line, a border between old and new. Most people view January 1 as the jumping off point, the day on the calendar that begets new beginnings. They’re wrong. It’s September 1.

            It’s possible my opinion is colored by thirty-two years of combined back to school activities experienced between myself and my children; thirty-two years of K-master’s degrees.

There’s a certain je ne sais quoi about crouching in the school supplies section of Wal-Mart like some surreptitious addict with your nose shoved in a Trapper Keeper huffing all that new notebook paper and plastic, that says, “Something new is about to begin—and soon.”

            The yard is starting to look worn-down-tired.  The zinnias are fading before my eyes, announcing they’ve quit, packed it in, and are planning on retiring before the first frost—this is my termination notice. Too much sun, too little rain, they didn’t sign on for all that, but they will agree to leave seeds on the black earth—something new that will begin in a few months, unless the birds eat them first.  The Russian Sage is ignoring this season of new, standing tall, enticing the bees and butterflies to continue gathering pollen, winged party guests that want to stay until dawn even though their host is exhausted and wants to go to bed.

            September begins a rapid count-down to winter it always seems, the last third of the year flying by in a matter of moments, while the previous two thirds took their sweet time, dragging their feet in procrastination about getting to the best of their seasons.  Along with September comes brilliant brittle blue skies, golden corn shocks, and the fire of autumn leaves, colors that don’t exist at any other time of the year.

            Pumpkin spice is making its annual appearance, regrettably. To my dismay there are limited edition pumpkin spice Cheerios. My son-in-law works for General Mills. He and I and the General need to have a word.

            It’s September and the wildlife in the yard have begun new things too. Rather than sitting in my tropical hibiscus chewing the branches, the squirrels have begun gathering, stashing, and hiding their caches of newly dropped acorns and freshly planted crocus bulbs for winter feeding. They are forgetful little critters when it comes to bulbs though. They pop up in some very unexpected places in the spring. I too store and stash in my own way, scouring the internet for sales on wool booties, shoes, and coats—I never have enough, preparing my own nest for new weather.

            Cicada songs fill the air twenty-four/seven with a raucous crescendo of sound drowning out the sweet chirping of crickets—well—other than the one that is hidden in a crack of a floorboard in the bedroom. It’s their time of year to command the night music stage.

            Out in the back yard new happenings are occurring. The lone hummingbird that has had the exclusive use of the feeder is now engaged in hummingbird wars as other hummers have discovered his private trove of nectar. Early mornings I sit with my coffee and watch kamikaze battles for control of the food source. These days it’s much more entertaining than watching the news.

            In the far corner of my yard hostas lie flattened and drying out despite my attempts to keep them watered. It is the unfortunate fact that they occupy the prime look-out spot my canine protective agency requires to keep the property safe from the dangers of the mail man, the FedEx truck, and kindergarteners waiting on the school bus. You never can be too careful. It ‘s a vantage point on the happenings in the neighborhood that security refuses to give up. The good news is the hostas will spring forth in abundance again next spring.

            It is the beginning of my new year. In the months ahead I will make the same plans I make every year at this time: paint the woodwork, clean out the closets and garage, and lose a few pounds. I don’t need to write the list down anymore. It may be a new year but some things never change.