Autumn

I remember this time of year, when the harsh heat of August was melting into September and the beginning of Fall. When I was younger, I travelled to the farm in Tennessee and visited my grandmother. The International Walking Horse Show was being held in Shelbyville. Austin Peay might be playing football on Saturday night. Dad and I would patiently walk the fencerows on Saturday afternoon in search of a mourning dove or two. It would be warm and you could feel the coming of Autumn only at night or in the early morning when I would get up and join grandmommie in the kitchen for breakfast. Later in the season, the leaves on the oaks and maples in the front yard would turn red and yellow, then brown before they fell as a blanket on the ground. Even later, the air would get colder and the smell of burning coal would fall upon the scene and lay a thick sweetness on the ground. At Thanksgiving, we would eat turkey and ham and grandmommie's dressing with sweet gherkins and watermelon pickles and olives and green beans and sweet potatoes, followed by those special little buttery biscuits that my grandmother always apologized for, then offered us two, because they were so wonderfully small. Autumn would end as Christmas rolled around and all of the birthdays would come and go and the world would turn grey and the air around the farm would be cold and bitter, but inside the house, it would be warm and filled with the smell of cinnamon candy, citrusy ambrosia, boiled custard and chocolate caramels and divinity. The sweet ending of the year.