Fall is here. Not technically, but it is here. Our forest fire smoke has finally gone. Skies are again blue. Cool nights. Crisp mornings. Socks.
The days are already so much shorter. We are inside now by 7:30, wrapping up those tricycle excursions by the light of the setting sun. Afternoons are still warm. The most pleasant of temperatures. I have been lucky enough to enjoy a few mid-day nap sessions spent knitting out on the front deck, pleasantly still and quiet. The house is adorned with home-grown pumpkins, recently picked from the garden and lugged up to deck to await their Halloween transformation. The other day, Reed took to rolling pumpkins off the deck, thrilled by his own naughtiness as he watched them topple end over end across the lawn.
We had a little chat.
As I knit, I look at these (bruised) pumpkins and smile, noting the hint of color change sneaking onto the leaves. I know my afternoons of deck knitting are limited. In a matter of weeks, I will be forced indoors by the nippy air. Left to await what always seems like endless months until Spring, when I can again venture out to sit in the sun.
While I secretly find peace in the new fall season, I mourn summer. All that I didn’t quite get to. Long, bright days. Summer ended earlier than normal and without warning when the smoke arrived, literally overnight. We didn’t get to say goodbye to swimming in the pool and river gradually, as I prefer. It was abrupt. Harsh.
I had so many flower beds that I wasn’t even able to weed. Instead they were left abandon, so unlike Tasha Tudor’s garden. They stare at me now. Taunting. Weed me. Weed me. Give me water. Pansies. Something. Instead I turn a blind eye and knit. One must always prioritize.
This time of year, I usually plant a fall garden. Kale. Chard. More beets. Even peas. Not this year. I am done. I have been gardening since February. The weeds won. I concede. We’ve harvested much since spring, some of which made it to the kitchen. The chickens enjoyed the rest. Lucky chickens. I plucked the fig tree over the weekend, direct from branch to my mouth. Take that Tasha Tudor. The tomatoes and basil keep coming in droves. The freezer is filling. Preserved for winter when perhaps I will be more inspired to toil in the kitchen, warmed by the stove and oven, lit with sweet smells and perhaps even a candle now that Reed is older. Although truthfully he is just as likely to burn down the house as ever.
The other day I overheard friends mention they were starting to knit again, noting the change in the season. Fall. It’s here. I knit no more or no less in fall. I am obsessive. I knit year round with vigilance and passion. Gusto. Even what I knit doesn’t change too much with the seasons. Perhaps if I had more time and made it through projects more promptly, my knitting would be more appropriately seasonal. Instead, I have had the same three projects lingering on my needles for what seems like ages. I am ready to finish them. Move on to new endeavors. My fall knitting is delayed, awaiting the completion of my last summer tee. Even though it will have to wait a year before wear.
Soon, I tell myself. Soon.