I do have to admit to becoming heavy-hearted at this time of the year, not in a morose way, but in the manner of Keats, for example (haha). Labor Day marks the end of summer and there are strict rules enforced about wearing white shoes which I pay little attention to but they exist still to remind one that autumn is closing in on us. My friends on the east coast send pictures of green fields and leaves slowly beginning to change color. In England, it's almost time to start making soups and stews again. My mother has her Aga to warm her in the morning when it's cold in the rest of the house. In the supermarket this morning, there was a hideous black and orange Halloween display. Is it really that time already?
The children are back at school with all the drama that implies. More wringing of hands before getting on the bus this morning for my daughter. Lots of lifecoach-style text message whirred from my phone to hers till gradually she settled down. It's hard starting a new school and harder still when you know no-one and have come from an environment where everyone knows you. My son is going to spend this semester in Los Angeles, doing his course work in Santa Monica, maintaining his grades and deciding what he wants to do. It's a brave decision and a mature one, and selfishly (because I am) I love having him here. I love it when he climbs into my bed to watch Mad Men with me or giggles with his sister over the Wii Fit, or snuggles up with the dogs. I love his face, his smile, his general good-natured demeanor. I like to see him happy.
But autumn or fall here in Los Angeles isn't the same. It's still hot and dry and my voice is still gone from the fires. I want to go apple picking or walking through Ashridge near my mother's house. I want the nip of cold in the air when the skies are pink in the evening and the excuse to make thick, glossy stews.
This is an odd time. No white shoes, but plenty of thin t-shirts and longing.