October 7
First thought I had upon awaking this morning was of winter. On account of leaving the bedroom window open over night I was shivering cold. After walking 'cross the cold floorboards to the bathroom I dug my blue house slippers out of the closet only to find one of 'em chewed right through at the toe. I'll be having a conversation with that shiftless cat of mine. If he doesn't start doing a more fitting job of keeping this house clear of rodents, he'll be booted out to the barn with the others. A deal's a deal.
But winter is what I thought of this morning. The quiet of it. The way the town seems all dolled up for a church wedding in its finest white silk and pearls. There's nothing much prettier, or more reassuring, than a winter morning.
In winter Bill Perry starts showing up to plow the drive and shovel the
walk. I can always hear his truck down by the road. The motor announces
his arrival with a rough growling sound that only trucks carrying plows
seem to make. It only takes a couple of minutes before there's a clean path
from the road to my dooryard. From the kitchen window I see him step out
of the truck adjusting his hat and wiping his forehead like he just moved
all that snow with his own two hands. That's when I walk to the door to
invite him in for a mug of something hot and whatever muffin or cake I might
have in the pantry. I can't precisely recall when I got into the habit of
pausing at the hallway mirror before I open the door. I'm not fixing to
rush fall but I know that winter is its usual result.
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