aefenglommung (aefenglommung) wrote,
aefenglommung
aefenglommung

That creaky sound you hear is my joints, not somebody messing with the gate

When I was a boy, autumn was my favorite time of year. My birthday had something to do with that, and also the beginning of the school year. As I grew up, camping in the fall was one of my favorite things. In any case, I always felt so alive in the fall. And, of course, it matched my mood frequently: childhood and youth are autumnal, since the selves we were are always dying, to be replaced by the selves we are becoming.

As I entered middle age, I re-discovered spring. Up until about my 50th year, spring was only the wet, muddy season between winter and summer. But I began to notice how the bushes and flowers and trees broke out into blossom in the same sequence every year, how the birds behaved. Spring, with its promise of renewal, was a great gift to an aging man. But I still loved fall.

Now, in my sixties, I notice the cold more. And my muscles all tense up as the weather changes. I don't have all that energy any more, and I get sluggish as the daylight shrinks. How long is it till spring? What a topsy-turvy world we live in, to be sure.
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