It was hot here, hot and steaming so that the air felt too thick to fit in your lungs. There were days when I thought that people should be walking around in scuba masks. One day, an old friend from New York called. She asked if it was fall here yet, and I laughed and said no.
The next morning, I went outside for a run. All along City Park Ave, trees were dropping curled brown leaves. The air was cool, and it had a freshness to it. I thought nothing of it, or not a lot. It was early, the sun was still working it’s way to the horizon.
Later in the day, it was cloudy. There was a strong breeze. The leaves continued to drop. And four days later, the weather has not changed. I’m excited.
I should have known that fall was drawing close. The other day, I was walking to the bar and the first paragraph of a short story sprang into my brain. I always write more and better in the fall and winter.
I want to go to an orchard and collect apples, I want to harvest honey and defy bees. Beekeeping runs in my family. I wrote once about watching my great grandfather collect honey from a hive with no smoke or other equipment. He had no stings when he finished, and I was terrified. I thought that it would sting if he touched me. It didn’t.