Jordan Pond in Acadia National Park in October 2008. The park and the Jordan Pond House Restaurant are currently closed due the government shutdown. We'll be going to the island next weekend no matter what. (Those stupid politicians...)
I love fall. I love the cooler weather, the pumpkins everywhere, the reappearance of sweaters and boots, and the back-to-school energy in my apartment (since my husband is a professor) as well as my neighborhood (although I don't always love the students themselves). I love new beginnings, flannel sheets, turning leaves, and apple cider.
Fall is also a time of anniversaries around here: our wedding, the arrivals of all four of our cats — and also of my beginning this blog. I've been posting here for more than five years, since September 18, 2008. I'd like to thank my friend and fellow blogger Some Assembly Required for the years he spent persuading me to start it. (I hope he is satisfied with the monster he created.) I'd also like to thank my readers for your interest, kindness, and comments.
Please continue to bear with me: I might yet surprise you by having something interesting to say!
But in lieu of that, I'll offer you one of my favorite sonnets of Shakespeare, #73:
That time of year thou mayst in me beholdYou might like to compare that little ditty with some of my early oeuvre, from the fall of 2008. It was a busy season: I began blogging just after we returned from a trip to Venice and Milan, as we were struggling to survive the worst months of a cataclysmic, year-long gut renovation downstairs (I deleted many posts about that, and I'm glad I didn't preserve all the horrible details). We went to Paris and to Maine, our president was elected, my husband had a wardrobe malfunction minutes before his Harvard interview, my niece got married, and we returned our Christmas tree. I seem to have eaten and savored more unwholesome food — crèpes, cupcakes, potatoes dauphinoise — then than I do now, but I can fix that. Life may seem a bit dull these days in comparison but I am not complaining. I love this time of year.
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.