Just because you change the clock
doesn't mean you change yourself: I wanted, last night, to go to bed early, tired. I rose this morning, wide awake, a little after 4:00 a.m. Wherever you go, whatever else you change, you are still your habits. The land, too, is marked with our habits, our seasonal rituals. There are things we do because our fathers did them. The older I grow, the more I am my father. It becomes clearer every day. There are times I say something and I'm startled by how much it sounds like my father: I look around for him.
There is a slight rain; all the leaves on the ground are damp and some cling to my shoes. The smell of autumn slaps you in the face. The slight tink-tinker of rain on the cab of the pick-up is enough that I'll need to use the wipers. The morning is a grey wall, moving like a cape in the wind. The kind of day to climb onto your horse, pull your hat down low, and ride, ride, ride away. Make yourself do it.
Even with the rain this morning, the Grand River is a tight little creek as it comes through town.
If you don't have your corn in its crib, it's taking on moisture today. The tires on the asphalt sing like a girl with a mouthful of embarrassment. The tall grass in the ditches, the weeds in the fence rows are all turning brown. The hand of the season has touched them, too. There are pumpkins along driveways. Mushrooms sprouting on a lawn at the edge of Ripon. Leaves raked into great brown heaps. Halloween decorations in front of houses along Watson Street.
A foundation has been poured for expansion of the Ripon Historical Society. It will be needed - we are making more history every day.
Rain on the windshield. Rain in the distance. Grey rain. Pull your hat down, dammit, climb on that horse and ride.