On a gray and dismal October afternoon, I pondered how quickly the summer had passed. As we get older, the months slip by more quickly, like an object falling down a hill, escalating as we reach bottom.  Is it just my imagination?

          I enjoy the fact that we have four season.  Each season brings its own magic.  It would be boring to live elsewhere and not enjoy the wonders of Nature as it unfolds each spring.

        Years ago, it was a joy to sit on the front porch on a summer evening, trying to catch a cool summer breeze, listening to the chirp of the robin.  With air conditioning, we sit in our closed up homes now and don’t see anyone who might be walking by that we could invite to join us on our front porch for a glass of lemonade and a visit.  Or we sit on patios in our back yard out of sight.

        In October, we have mixed emotions watching the leaves change color and gently float to the ground below. A neighbor using his leaf blower or lawn mower mars our reverie.

        The leaves turn their usual bright hues.  It ends all too soon, like a shipboard romance but, oh, wasn’t it wonderful while it lasted?

        Now we are in the throes of November.  I was curious as to what a “throe” was, so I looked it up.  It’s a violent pang or spasm of pain as in childbirth or the crisis of an illness. That did not seem to fit.  Reading further, I learned it’s “a condition of agonizing struggle or effort.”  BINGO!  That says it all when we think of the winter months ahead.

        The trees are bare, save for the last few “hangers-on” — much like guests who find it hard to depart, lingering in our doorway.

        By mid-November, most of us have adjusted to the time change; litter from the Halloween pranksters has disappeared.

        Mothers begin planning for Thanksgiving when all roads lead home.

        Christmas can’t come soon enough for the little ones and much too quickly for parents.

        Din from lawn mowers and leaf blowers is replaced with snow blowers.

        Calendars for 2018 are already here.  It’s the “inexorable March of Time,” as we heard years ago on a radio program.

        How sad would be November if we had no knowledge of Spring.*

 (*From a quote found in an old Readers Digest.)