My new year starts in September, not January. September is filled with hope. This month is alive with new books to read, new friends to make, and new dreams to dream.
When I lived with my grandmother on the farm near Louisville, KY, September was the beginning of horseshows, antique auctions, and stopping at the side of country roads to buy bushels of apples. She always asked about the farmer’s mama, and if the report was that mama was doing poorly the next time we stopped a jar of apple butter or a fresh apple cake was sent up to the house. That was considered just doing the proper thing. Grandmother was big on doing the proper thing.
Those apples replaced the summer peach cobblers and became pies topped with thick slices of cheddar cheese, and generous lectures on doing the proper thing. When her old fashioned farm kitchen smelled of cloves and cinnamon, I knew it was the beginning of autumn and soon it would be time to put the farm to bed for the winter.
Living on our ranch in South Texas delays the season by a good month, but this morning we were able to drink our morning coffee on the porch. Until now, it was way too hot by seven in the morning, and I admit I’ve turned into a real sissy. Even the tack room is air conditioned. I told my husband it was to keep the humidity from ruining expensive tack. Hey, it’s true. Partially.
People who live on the land live by the change of seasons. Last March, when my husband was asked the time, I heard him reply, “Jody’s been sleeping in the barn for a month. It must be foaling season. That makes it about March or April.”
It’s a good way to live. Who needs watches anyway?
What does September mean to you? Anything special?
I’m just sayin’…