Well. Fall-ish. It's too soon to haul out the down duvet and I'm not into socks yet - but it's a-comin', I can smell it.
In anticipation of my favorite season, I bought a cardigan sweater and a nice pork loin.
I haven't worn a cardigan since I was in the 9th grade, but it's what they always say about fashion: Everything comes around again.
If only one could hang on to things for decades, one could save a mess of money and have things that would always be on trend - but then one would have to remain the same size one was at 15, and that was 30 pounds ago.
Never happen. Especially when one has eaten the pork roast before the air is cool enough to wear the new sweater.
Our lone pear tree, probably as old as I am, did not perform this year (any more than I did), so it may be the time is ripe to clip the branches and create a bird bistro.
Lots of opportunities to support a slew of feeders for the visitors who are heading our way.
Fall-ish, and hopelessly smitten. I'm more excited about turning leaves, pickup trucks selling sweet corn on the side of a road and birds that winter over than I am about Thanksgiving or Christmas, both of which add up to work and stress.
Fall, to me, is all about appreciation of a world that's turning and all that's natural.
My collection of serious crows is artfully arranged on the mantle; a pallet of pellets for the stove in the living room is stacked on the screened porch and a basket of brown bag twists - easy fire starters and a good way to recycle sacks that have no printing on them - runneth over next to the wood stove in the kitchen.
Well. I will be when our cleaning wizard conquers the kitchen. She comes every other week, so I figure it'll take her into October to tackle the nooks and crannies that are currently occupied by tiny, translucent spiders that surely will inherit the Earth - along with moles.
"Mouse poop," she declared a few minutes ago, climbing down from a stepladder. "There's mouse poop on the top shelf. What sink shall I wash my rags in?"
Mouse-poop rags. How about a sink at the neighbor's?
OK, so maybe it'll be winter by the time I'm prepared for fall, but I can be just as giddy.
Millicent Fenwick doesn't share my enthusiasm for cooler weather and turning leaves. She has planted her ample self, belly to the beam, in a ray of sun streaming in through the many-paned kitchen door.
We call this kitty-titty-toastin'-time, around here (accompanied by a song I wrote myself), though it's been 15 years since she was a kitty.
As the sun sidles west and takes MF's beam with it, she'll trundle to wherever I am and say "mrack," which translates to "I'll be wanting to go outside and find my sunbeam, but I can't open the door because I'm not tall enough and I don't have opposable thumbs, so get up off your butt and let me out."
Or words to that effect.
Fast forward 10 minutes: "Mrack!"
Fast forward 10 more minutes. I am on my couch and in the pink.
One day last week, I tuned in to the Dr. Oz show, which now occupies Oprah's old time slot. It's refreshing to have body parts and bodily functions addressed by a health care guru who drops the sophomoric silliness and refers to such by their medical nomenclature.
I think we might be behind the curve, globally, about such.
Where was I going with this? Oh, right, pink.
Dr. Oz was talking about things we already have in our pantries and medicine chests that can serve as beauty aids, and is the reason my face is slathered with Pepto-Bismol. Good for dull skin.
I can't wait until Himself comes home from work.
* Lynne Horner is a former Maui News features editor and writer who now lives in Springfield, Ore. Her "Second Thoughts" column appears every Tuesday. Send email to her at email@example.com.