A Turning Season

Fall arrived at 7:29 last night. I went downstairs at 7:15 and spent a few minutes in the garden, inhaling the last breath of summer. The air was muggy yet smelled of wood smoke, the quintessential autumn scent. The big mystery tree out back has been dropping leaves for weeks now, crispy brown things that crunch like potato chips beneath my feet, but the flowers persist in colourful defiance.

I still see roses in bloom. Not many, but most definitely roses. We have a painting by Trisha Romance called “September Rose”; I think of it every time I walk past a garden that smells of Turkish delight..

My whites have been retired, but the pastel tees are still in play. Normally, at this time of year, I’m either underdressed for the morning or overdressed for the afternoon and a jacket is worn on the way to work but draped over my arm on the way home. This month has been unseasonably warm for Victoria—which was good for my niece’s bridal shower last weekend. You need good weather for a garden party and, miraculously, the weather obliged in spades.

Can’t say the same for Calgary—they had 30 cms of snow the week after Labour Day. The grounds crew at Spruce Meadows barely managed to clear the ring in time for the annual Masters tournament; if Ter and I had considered driving out to see the horses this year, we’d have stroked out over the weather beforehand.

The forecast this week is unsettled. Fall is definitely elbowing summer aside, but summer is fighting it. I don’t know why. It’ll be back next year.

Won’t it?