The air is cooler now, and many of the leaves have begun to fall here in the Midwest.
Autumn is truly underway.
The garden is finished. All of the produce is safely tucked away, and my garden beds are quiet.
I have said before that autumn is my favorite time of year. It holds so many memories.
When I was a young girl, I lived just a few blocks from my best friend. I was 14, and Lisa was 16.
In the evenings, after homework was done and the supper dishes were dried, we used to go for long walks circling our quiet little village until it was time to go home.
We had to be home by 10 p.m. whether it was a school night or not, so I always made sure to wear my watch.
Our village was small, about seven blocks long and three blocks wide. We usually walked the perimeter, making only left turns. I have NO idea why.
I suppose it might seem odd, two girls walking alone at night, but our little village was somewhat isolated. There was a streetlight on every corner, and a mom and dad we knew on every block. We felt very safe.
It was also a different time, the mid-1960s.
We always had so much to talk about. I doubt very much if there was ever a lapse in the conversation.
We often talked about our horses and going riding together. Her horse was Apache, and mine was Billy.
We talked about mutual friends, boys, school, and so much more. Because our community was small, we mostly hung out with the same kids.
I remember vividly the sound of Thornton’s corn dryer. Mr. Thornton and his family farmed on the edge of our village, and every fall, we could hear his corn dryer all over town.
We didn’t mind, though. It was just part of October and another sign that fall was here, along with cool weather, wood smoke from various chimneys, the rustling leaves underfoot, and the promise of the holidays soon to come.
At the time, we weren’t thinking beyond our walks together and the things that were happening in our lives. We were just two best friends enjoying time together.
Meanwhile, our lives were quietly changing in ways we couldn’t see.
Changing seasons, indeed.
