Ode to Summer And Fall

I hear the cicadas humming their love song, their lives soon to end. As boys in Texas, my brothers and I used to catch them, tie a string around them and let them fly at the end of the tether as we walked around the neighborhood. It marked the waning days of summer, long after Little League season ended.

I see my blonde sister in her teenhood, her hair tinged green from chlorine after hours in the pool.

I see Bob Gibson hitting an inside-the-park home run and Vada Pinson of the Reds, or were they the Red Legs back then?, knocking himself out against the wall at Busch Stadium 1 in 1965. At least that’s what I remember. Have to find the scorecard some place.

I feel the tug of fall as my brow cools and my children head back to school, full of expectations of glory, as well they should.

I thank the Good Lord that I have potable water when it seems the world is awash in what Coleridge said: “Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink; water, water everywhere and nor a drop to drink.”

I look forward to college football and the religious experience of rooting for the Laters (as a good friend of mine calls them) to beat Florida State and Texas.

Enough “I’s.” Summer is dying. Had some pumpkin bread the other day and “the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” as Mr. Keats pointed out, will soon be upon us.

And the Yankees, BREAK ‘EM UP.