Fall blew into Houston last night on the tails of a Gulf storm. When it arrived it ran smack dab into the face of a northern front and wallah! Fall. I use the term "Fall" lightly because no matter how many orange and yellow mum plants you sit on your porch and no matter how many pumpkin spice coffees you drink, fall may mean it's still going reach 96 again on Monday.
I pulled out all of my fall decorations last week in the hopes of willing it to arrive. I'm always so excited for the days of summer to arrive with their grilling afternoons and lazy pool parties, but by mid-September I am done. I long for the oranges, yellows, and browns that would dance across the trees of my youth. Fall is the only time of year I miss living in the north. For some reason the evergreens of my lush bayou city will not cooperate, which truth be told, I will appreciate again when the woods behind my house are still green in February.
I have always loved fall and, contrary to my husbands belief, it is not because it is the precursor to Christmas. There is something about fall that takes me back to high school football games, borrowing a boyfriend's letter jacket, the smell of burning leaves, and hot apple cider. Pep rallies, marching bands, hay rides. It all screams of fall and it just doesn't happen when it's 92 degrees.
But this morning it feels like fall in my back yard. I may go dry off a chair, take along a good book, and enjoy the chill of the morning.
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