I’ll take fall in Minnesota, thank you ~ September 26, 2002

David Heiller

I saw a cousin this summer that I hadn’t seen in many years. She is a couple years younger than me, yet she is already retired after a successful career in the military.

Early Autumn 2004 at the Spillway on the Mississippi, 
in Houston County, Minnesota

To top this off, she lives in Hawaii.

We got to talking about the weather there. No bugs, lots of sunshine, temperatures almost always in the 70s and 80s. Paradise, in other words.

I told her that I could never live in Hawaii.

Claire and me in Wright County
 in the fall of 2002. 
I like the oak leaf ears.

She looked a bit surprised at that. I explained that I enjoy the changing of the seasons too much, and what it brings out in me. That’s a hard thing to describe on a muggy summer night when Hawaii did seem like paradise. I don’t think Barb understood.

In fact, it’s hard to describe any time. It’s more something you feel, and it^’s happening right now. Chances are you know what I’m talking about.

Leaves are coming down in earnest. Their colors mix with the dwindling sunlight to give hue to the air that you can’t find at any other time of year. They bring on that crisp scent of autumn that you don’t experience any other time, an aroma of dried leaves and football games and shotgun shells.

The days cool down fast. The evenings are chilly. The weatherman talks about frost, but you don’t need a weatherman to know that.

You get out to the garden, make sure everything that is vulnerable to frost gets picked or covered. The house fills up with buckets and bowls of onions and tomatoes. The fridge bulge with peppers and cucumbers.

Hillside Road, Houston County Minnesota

You start looking at the old home-place with an eye toward cold weather. What needs to be done? Paint, caulk. Fix a broken step. A lot of little chores, and maybe some big ones.

But the funny thing is you don’t mind doing, them. Split wood? Clean up the greenhouse? Organize the workbench? No problem. The changing season puts a spring in your step. That’s because something new is just around, the corner.

No doubt, Morocco is beautiful. 
David's heart was always in Minnesota

We like change, and we like to suffer a bit, too. Monday was as dreary; cold, and rainy a day as you could ask for, and a co-worker exclaimed out of the blue, “I love this weather!” He was ready for the change, ready to suffer a bit; because then he’ll get to prove that he can hold his own against Mother Nature.

My love for the four seasons was cemented when I spent two years in Morocco. I remember one Christmas Eve, walking under a full moon in my shirt sleeves in a dry, warm world, and. thinking, “I never want to miss winter again.”

Yes, the seasons changed in Morocco. Summers were very hot, and spring brought lush growth, and winter was wet and cold. I’m sure people got used to that. The same is probably true in Hawaii. I tip my hat to Cousin Barb for adapting to that. But I^’ll take fall in Minnesota.

The freedom to do nothing ~ September 28, 1995

David Heiller

Our 10-year-old daughter informed us at supper last week that she wanted to quit piano lessons. She is too busy, she told us.

Piano days are done.

She has homework every night. She has joined fifth grade choir at Willow River, and is going to start taking clarinet lessons for the school band.

Then there’s Girl Scouts every other Monday, and piano lessons every Thursday after school.

And I know parents whose children are even busier, for example, who play hockey.

If you look up the word “busy” in a dictionary, it will say: “See hockey parent.” I get confused just listening to their schedules.

It doesn’t get any easier as the children get older, from what I’ve seen. There are sports, and pep band, and marching band, and National Honor Society and annual staff, and maybe a part-time job at the Dairy Queen.

Malika doing some wonderful "nothing"

We said no to Mollie’s request. We think piano lessons are important. But I couldn’t stop myself from asking this question: When do kids get to be kids anymore?

Yes, I know I sound old when I say something like that. And yes, when I was my daughter’s age, my friends and I were busy enough.

But we didn’t have organized activities like today. We had a Boy Scout meeting once a month, with a hike or camping trip every so often. That was about the extent of our adult-led activities.

Our football games were organized by a telephone call or two. Or else everyone would just congregate at the playground for a game. There was always a game going on, either football or softball or basketball, depending on the season.

We would explore by the river, or hunt squirrels, or go fishing, or walk along the railroad tracks looking for fossils. We would ride our bikes around town, or play at the school grounds.

David exercising his freedom to do nothing too!

You probably have your own list of carefree childhood memories. I bet they bring a smile to your face. You can learn a lot from things like that, from just acting your age and having the freedom to do nothing.

My daughter and one of her friends are building a playhouse now in their spare time. They have needed some help from me, but I’ve kept it to a minimum. Mostly it is their fort, and it shows by the crooked siding and bent nails. Sometimes they argue over who should do what, but the importance of the playhouse soon smoothes any ruffled feathers.

They are learning some carpentry skills. They are learning not to be afraid to try something new. They are learning how to work together. All very important lessons.

It makes me happy to see them do this, or to see them jump on the trampoline or explore the old house next door.

When they are my age, I bet they remember their free time more than all those other things that are making their life hectic.

A perfect book club outing ~ September 9, 1998

David Heiller

Our book club read Canoeing with the Cree, by Eric Sevareid, for our September discussion.

But instead of meeting at someone’s house in the evening, like we usually do, we held this book club on the Kettle River.

This is what bookclub usually looked like.
This was at our house.

We canoed from County Road 52 to Rutledge, about an eight mile stretch, on September 6.

There were eight canoes and 18 people. Usu­ally we have about 10 people at book club, but a fun outing on a gorgeous day attracted extra spouses and kids.

Cindy and I canoed the first half with a 16-year-old boy, Matt, in the middle. We hit a lot of shallow spots. The Kettle River is low, because of the dry summer. We had to get out of the ca­noe to pull it over rocks and sand many, many times.

At some places trees lay over the river. Sometimes we were able to float underneath them. One tree was about three feet above the river. Cindy bent low enough to slip under it. But I’m a lot bigger than her, so I climbed out of the canoe and onto the tree trunk while the canoe floated underneath. Then I got back in the canoe.

It wasn’t exactly the kind of challenge that Eric Sevareid and Walter Port faced on their ca­noe trip from Minneapolis to Hudson Bay.

At about the half way point, we stopped on a sandy shore and had a picnic lunch and dis­cussed the book. Everybody brought some food to share. Pat Ring laid a tarp down on the sand. People set out salads and fresh vegetables and fruit, most of it home grown.

Deane and Katherine Hillbrand on the Kettle River

There were breads and meat and cheese and sandwiches. I bet it was the fanciest picnic the Kettle River has ever seen. That’s one thing I like about Book Club. There’s always great food.

The discussion was good too, although it took Pat, who serves as the unofficial moderator, some hollering to bring us all together. The set­ting on the river was just right for the discus­sion, which was what we had in mind in the first place.           

We talked about how lucky Severeid and Port, who were both teenagers, had been on their trip, which started in Minneapolis and ended at Hud­son Bay. So many things could have gone wrong.

But their courage and strength played an equally big part. They tackled a huge wilder­ness, in awful weather, on dangerous rivers.

How many of us standing there would have turned back? Eric Severeid put it well in his author’s note: “Our journey was an example of what very young men can do—once in their lives—but never again!”

It’s important to do something like that when you are young and have the chance several people said. After the discussion, one of the college kids said the discussion made hint a little sad, because he didn’t know if he would be able to ever have an adventure like that.

He already had college loans piling up. He was feeling the pressure of having to get a job right after college. I think he wished he could head out to Hudson Bay instead of Duluth.

That made me think that young people today face more stress than people like Severeid and Port did in 1930.

We packed up the food and headed down the mighty Kettle River. Joel and Daina Rosen pulled their canoe up to ours. Joel wanted to sing songs. That was the perfect ending for the trip. Singing and canoeing go together like a paddle and water, But often I don’t do it. I get self-conscious. Joel doesn’t know what self-conscious is, at least when it comes to singing. His rich baritone voice carried over the river, and it sounded great.

Just like our book club trip down the river.

The first day of school ~ September 6, 1990

David Heiller

Monday night, Sept. 3, 9:15. Mollie can’t sleep. She creaks down the steps for about the fourth time tonight. That’s not unusual. She’s a great staller.

She crawls onto my lap at the kitchen table, and I hug her like a warm blanket. No yelling tonight. It’s a special night for us all.

“I still can’t sleep,” she says.

“Are you thinking about school?^” She nods, then raises her hand. “You have to raise your hand in school,” she says. “But not at nap time. You can’t raise your hand at nap time.” Noah has been teaching her the kindergarten ropes.

Up a tree, where Noah and Malika liked to be.

“I’m sad because I want to graduate,” she con­tinues, her eyes focused on a batch of fresh peanut butter cookies behind me.

“You can’t graduate until the end of the year,” I say. “First you have to go to school and learn a lot of things and be a good girl.” She nods duti­fully, still eyeing the cookies. She’s not worried about school at all, I suddenly realize. She’s worried about not getting to eat a fresh cookie.

“Would you like a cookie?” She nods again; I break one in half and send her upstairs.

 Something’s wrong. Normally Mollie would not get a hug and a cookie on Monday night at 9:15. But the first day of school does strange things to people.

Even to Mollie. Mollie the Youngest. Mollie the Staller. Mollie the Wild. Mollie the Paint-Orange-Paint-All-Over-Your-Body.

That was only three years age. I could have shipped her out to kindergarten that night, one at a boarding school very far away. There’s still orange paint on the floor by her bed.

There were other times too. All parents know what I mean. Times when you want to cut wood, or roof the shed, or bake bread or hang out clothes. Things that HAVE to get done, and a lit­tle kid keeps asking questions or wanting juice or wanting to share a favorite book or Sesame Street episode. You sigh and make time and like an idiot, you begrudge it a bit.

This all ends tomorrow, the first day of school. Mollie’s sad because she can’t graduate yet, and sadder still because she wants a cookie. She doesn’t realize the sticky mess called school—and growing up—that she is about to run into, and she’s lucky for that.

Noah is explaining the bus ride to Malika, 
meanwhile Queen Ida is nervous about them being gone.

Moms and Dads realize it, and it takes on more meaning for them. Like adults, they make a big deal about it. They’ve been bracing for it for a while, mentioning it while hanging up the clothes. “Won’t it be strange having Mollie in school?” Answering, “Yeah, wow.” but not really knowing that your gut feels like an empty house, echoing with stillness. Until now.

I’ve felt it a few times before. It comes at times of departure: a broken romance, the end of summer camp, the first day in college. I remember when I was leaving for the Peace Corps in 1977. Mom drove me to the airport in La Crosse. I felt nervous, excited, starting a great two-year adventure. I thought Mom shared those feelings, and maybe she did. But she cried as we hugged at the airport, like I hadn’t seen her cry in years.

Those tears surprised me then, but I understand them better now.

Tuesday morning, Sept. 4, 7:10: Mollie and Noah wait for Dave Nyrud’s school bus to pull into the driveway. They both wear back-packs big enough to carry a pup tent. These are children of the ‘90s.

We hear the bus down-shifting at Williams' to pick up April and Rosie. Mollie holds her arms out for me to pick her up. I hug her tight. “Why don’t you stay home?” I tell her. “We can watch The Little Mermaid all day.”

She laughs. She knows I’m joking. But she says “No” anyway, and she means it. She wouldn’t miss the first day of school for anything.

Getting control of the Firewood Supply ~ November 2, 1995

David Heiller

We’ve had a lot of wet weather lately, which has me worried about our Firewood Supply.

Firewood Supply is capitalized because it is a serious subject when you heat with wood.

Most people have their Firewood Supply under control at this point in the year. In fact the true old timer is working on his Firewood Supply for next year, or even 1997, right about now. Maybe someday I’ll be at that point. But things always seem to get in the way, like football games and gardening and an emergency or two.

"Argg"!

So I’m crossing my fingers that we’ll get a cold snap and the rain will cease and the ground will harden and everything will work out fine, like it always does.

In preparation for those perfect conditions, I spent part of Saturday and Sunday in the woods wearing knee-high rubber boots, cutting and splitting several cords of basswood, maple, and red oak.

Two companions helped the time go faster.

On Saturday I worked with the company of our Australian shepherd, Mackenzie. She is a faithful dog. She and our other dog, Ida, walked out with me. Ida split for home after a few minutes, but Mac sat down about 30 feet away and for four hours watched me work.

Kenzie patiently waits,
always alert to any change of plans.

When I would stop for a break and shut off the saw, I would call her over and she would gratefully come, her whole hind end wagging, and we would talk and hug for a few seconds. It’s a good feeling, having a loyal dog like that. It puts a bright spot on what is often a cold and dreary job.

So does working with your son. I asked Noah to help me on Sunday. He came reluctantly. He would rather have spent his time strutting around the yard wearing his football shoulder pads and flexing his muscles and pretending he was John Randle.

His job was to stand the stove-length logs upright, and to split them if he could. If he couldn’t, then at least the logs would be ready for me to split. That saves some bending for me. His 12-year-old back has a few more bends in it than mine. If there is one job that will give you a stiff back, it is splitting wood.

Noah had trouble splitting the green maple. The axe got tangled in the underbrush more than once, and I heard him grumble about it. He is discovering that underbrush is the mortal enemy of making firewood. It nicks your cheeks, catches your saw, steals your hat, and trips your feet.

Dad's worthy assistant.

He did better splitting the oak. When he got tired of standing the wood upright and splitting, he did some tossing.

Tossing a piece of wood gives you a good feeling, especially when you are frustrated with the underbrush. You give a grunt and toss that hunk with an “Aargh!” and you feel better. Don’t ask me why.

At first Noah worked quietly, and when he is quiet, he is not happy. I watched his frustration with trying to split some tough logs. But as the jobs progressed, as he split and tossed and stacked and patiently fought the underbrush, his attitude changed.

He started to feel his body work, his back, his forearms, his triceps and biceps and all those other muscles that he knows by name.

You get a workout making firewood. It’s a hard job. But once you get into the rhythm of the job, you start to feel pretty good.

Then he started talking about the Vikings, and about how this work was helping his muscles and I knew he was doing fine. He talked and I listened. Once in a while I would say “Yeah?” or “Right!” and that was all I needed to say.

He’s going to help me again next Saturday. Mackenzie will too. Then we’ll get the Firewood Supply under control, if the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise.

In a fog no longer ~ September 15, 2004

David Heiller

It’s interesting what a change in perspective can do to something as simple as fog.

The view from our home in southeastern Minnesota.
Under that cloud is the Mississippi River. 
On the horizon is Wisconsin.

When I was a kid growing up in Brownsville, fog would roll in almost every morning at this time of year. I never gave it much thought.

It meant Dale Besse would drive the school bus a little more slowly up the mile grade. When I went to Fruit Acres to pick apples, the drive would take a little longer, until the old 1964 Chevy broke through the clouds above La Crescent.

Then I would see the river bathed in clouds and I would pull off at the scenic overlook, and something would tug inside of me.

Beauty like that is a gift, and I have carried that vision in the back of my mind for decades since.

Now the vision is here to stay, and it hasn’t lost its luster.

It snuck up on me a couple weeks ago, at our ridge overlooking Heiller Valley. (Hey, it used to be filled with Heillers, so Heiller Valley it shall be.)

Clouds on the river.

Sometimes they lie low like a fat wide snake. Sometimes they billow up like cotton candy. Always different, always moving, but more slowly than the eye can see.

Sometimes Wisconsin hills peek over the top, sometimes the clouds cover the whole horizon.

The Wisconsin hills turn mauve in the
right conditions in the afternoon.
My friend Sara sent me this photo.

At first, when the alarm clock rings, the river valley is a dull gray. But If I can’t see the yard lights three miles to the east in Wisconsin, I know the clouds are waiting.

Then the sun rises from behind, setting the edges glowing pink and orange. Fringes of color appear, and finally the good old sun, like a red neon ball.

For a few minutes, seconds really, you can look at the sun, and that’s fascinating too. Then it breaks free of the mist, and you have to avert your eyes to the brilliant light. That’s when the clouds jump out in all their glory.

It’s hard to describe. If you’ve ever looked down on clouds from an airplane, that’s what it’s like. Too beautiful for anything but a “Wow” or a “Geez” or a “Cindy, look at this.” Or often just silent wonder.

Then the sun breaks up the party. The fog lifts. Sometimes we can watch it slink toward us, up past the spirit of all those Heiller kids, from Dad on down. Then we are in the clouds, and it’s just dull old fog again, so thick that all we can see is the cottonwood tree below the house.

The road to the Reno Quarry.

The clouds on the river are sheer beauty, and they are something more, a reminder of the good old days on the way to Fruit Acres, and the good old days that are here to stay.

I think of that often in our new home. The beauty of the valley, the sunsets over the old Oesterle farm across the road, the Reno quarry catching the last golden light.

Moonlight bouncing off the roof of the barn, so bright you almost have to put on sunglasses. The Milky Way straight overhead.

Owls calling back and forth. Coyotes yipping. Flocks of blackbirds that blot out the sun. Tree swallows lining the electric wires.

The list is almost endless.

And the fog. That’s what I used to call it. But one man’s fog is another man’s cloud, and one lady’s mist is another lady’s majesty.

Things change when school begins ~ September 9, 1993

David Heiller

Summer came to an end on Monday of this week, Labor Day. It was the last day that the kids didn’t have school.

Time with good friends. 
It doesn't take a lot of planning in the summer.

Things change in a hurry when school starts. It’s a time of “no mores.” No more sleeping in for the kids until seven, not when the school bus arrives at 7:15. Suddenly we have to get up at 6 a.m.

No more working on the computer when I wake up, or weeding the garden for half an hour before breakfast, or sitting down with a good book and a big cup of tea while the rest of the house is asleep.

No more sleeping in the tent or the trailer for the kids. No more 10 o’clock bedtimes. No more inviting friends over for a day or night.

No more cold cereal. When school is in session, I make hot cereal every morning except Wednesday. It’s my job, and I can do it in my sleep, which is good because I’m usually asleep when I make it.

Tuesday’s oatmeal passed the taste test of my family with flying colors. (It helps to put in a lot of sugar, and a dab of butter.) Mollie even asked for a second helping, and asked if we could have mush tomorrow. I said yes both times.

This is David's Cereal Card giving water:cereal proportions which I tacked on the
inside of the cupboard door for David.
I wrangled the children and he wrangled breakfast.
What a duo!

There’s something good about starting the day with hot cereal. You sit down together as a family to eat it. You talk. You take your time, because otherwise you’ll burn your tongue. Maybe because of that, you know that things will go all right, that bullies won’t beat you up, that your best friend won’t desert you.

AND FINALLY, no more kids at home during the day. When the kids left for school on Tuesday, the house was suddenly empty and quiet. Cindy and I were talking about that last week, about how nice it is when the kids get on the bus and the house is so quiet. A little peace and quiet is OK, especially after three months of war and noise.

1993

It’s a different kind of quiet though, not like you find occasionally in the summer when everyone happens to be gone before you. That’s more of a treat. It’s a lonelier kind of quiet, and it still carries a few worries. How is their bus ride going? How are they getting along in class? Are they making new friends? Getting into fights? We’ll eagerly wait for the answers after school, when the kids get home at four.

My respect for teachers goes up at this time of year. Most teachers have families of their own, but they can’t enjoy peace and quiet the day after Labor Day, because it is their job to teach 30 or so of the ones that have just left our houses so empty and quiet. Think about it the next time you complain about how they are overpaid and get the summers off.

Both of our kids ran to the bus eagerly on Tuesday. They had new clothes and new shoes. Noah was wearing an Indian necklace made out of bones. Their backpacks were bulging with colored pencils, calculators, rulers, and notebooks without a mark in them. They are starting with a clean slate, to coin a phrase.

They like school. I feel lucky for that, lucky for a good bus driver and good teachers, good cooks and good children, and a good home.

Those are things that hopefully will never change.

Looking forward to opening day ~ September 5, 1991

David Heiller

There’s nothing quite as exciting as the first day of school what with butterflies, teddy bears, turtles, and all.

First day of first and second grade.
 Almost bravado.

First those butterflies, the kind that you feel in your mid-section when you do something new, something a little scary and a little exciting too. They swarmed inside of us two years ago, on Noah’s first day in kindergarten, and again last year when he started going full-time and Malika hit kindergarten. Now this year it’s Mollie’s turn for first grade, and we are again nervous. Every year it’s a milestone, carried by a flock of butterflies.

We parents feel the butterflies as we answer the questions of our young. “Did you ever think you would learn to write cursive, Dad?” Noah asked on Sunday night. That’s a weighty question for a second grader.

“No, I never thought I would,” I answered, quite honestly. “I remember thinking it was another language, that it wasn’t even English.” Suddenly the butterflies returned.

“But I learned, because I had a good teacher and tried hard, just like you will, because you have a good teacher and you’re smart,” I continued. Or something like that, Parent Answer Number 23 in The Handbook of Parental Responses to Questions About School, Fourth Edition.

The next day, I cornered Noah. “Why are you worried about writing cursive? That’s not until third grade.”

Malika making cookies.

“I’ll worry about school for every grade,” he answered with a sheepish grin. I suddenly realized that he wasn’t all that worried after all. He was trying his hardest to worry, but excitement was coming on too strong, shooing away the butterflies.

On Monday morning, Mollie grabbed a pen and paper. “I’m not going to be nervous,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “How do you write that?”

It seemed like a strange request, but I helped her with the apostrophe in I’m, then wrote out the word going. That was all the farther she got, before her butterflies left too, and she put down the pen and went to watch Sesame Street.

In fact, if you pinned Mollie down, she would admit that she’s more EXCITED about wearing her new stirrup pants, cummerbund, and floral blouse to school than she is nervous.

Her teacher, Mrs. Gentry, has helped. She sent a letter to Mollie last week, telling her to bring a teddy bear on the first day. The letter started: Welcome to first grade! My name is Mrs. Gentry and I will be your teacher. I am so glad you are in my class! That made Mollie feel good, as well as Cindy and me.

Pensive Noah.

Mollie was tickled to get a letter in the mail, especially from her teacher. Moses couldn’t have felt much prouder when he received a note from God on granite stationery, listing the 10 commandments. And Moses must have been a little nervous too.

Noah is also eager, thanks in large part to Shane, his turtle, and his teacher, Mrs. Kephart. She has told him he can bring Shane for the school year, if Noah can figure out how to keep him alive and well and living in Willow River Elementary School. Nothing would make Noah happier than to have his turtle for a classmate this year.

I guess good teachers have a way of cutting off those butterflies at the pass.

TUESDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 3: As for us adults, we’ve felt the excitement for at least one more year and one more milestone. We stood outside and felt the butterflies too, as Dave Nyrud pulled up in his bus at 7:08 and the kids disappeared down the road today. Then we walked back into the quiet, empty house a little older and a little wiser, just like the kids. The butterflies are gone until next year.

Fall arrived in glorious fashion ~ September 20, 2006

David Heiller

We weren’t the only ones with an idea for a Saturday evening walk on the spillway.

There were the fishermen who met us on the way to their cars. Three different groups, and they all had a contented look that said the fishing was good. The first guy said the bass were biting. Another man gave me a rundown on a big carp—it must have been 10 pounds, he said with a laugh. The third guy mumbled that he caught a few, which translates in fishing language to fantastic fishing, although I’ve yet to hear the latter statement, ever.

Bob and Gail with me and two of
the dogs on a fall spillway walk.
 The river is a good place to go and reconnect yourself.

Then there was that family fishing by the spillway, the kids all lined up oldest to youngest, and the little guy’s pole bending with a bluegill. That was almost too pretty for words. A father and son pedaled past us on their way to the unspoiled waters of the second spillway. You could almost feel their energy and excitement. What better thing to be doing on a Saturday night?

They were all there like us, soaking up the last of the summer.

   You could feel this evening coming all week, and you didn’t need the weatherman to announce it. There was a change in the air for days. We’ve come to sense that after so many years and generations in Minnesota. Things were going to change soon. The hot days, forget it. They are history. It’s time for cool nights, brisk mornings, a good stiff wind, gray clouds that hint of November. Even the dreaded word “frost” is starting to enter the fringe of our thoughts.

The drive down the the spillway is always lovely,
but the autumn is special.

That’s what made the walk so special. The golden sun still had some summer warmth. A heron coasted over the water. Three little water snakes hurried across the gravel. A group of five pelicans floated and turned in perfect unison.

Our friends helped too. We had brought them to the spillway to show them one of our favorite spots. It’s always fun to do that, and even more fun when it is appreciated in rich return, which it was. At one point Gail stopped and looked to the north, the broad river stretching to Brownsville and beyond. She seemed to be breathing it all in. Gail grew up in St. Louis. She said she missed the river. I could tell she needed it, like many of us do, and this little walk was quenching that, a little at least. Every little bit helps when it comes to connecting to something that is flowing in your veins.

A lovely autumn sky looking across the road.

And that leads to fishing. So cut to Sunday morning. I biked to my favorite spot and tested the water, and sure enough, those fishermen were smiling for a reason. A fish on almost every cast. Sunnies, perch, catfish, bass, even Cindy’s favorite, a sheepshead. I pulled them in steadily, keeping some, tossing some back. My two dogs sat patiently nearby. No one else in sight. It was pretty much my definition of heaven.

The weather changed during those couple hours, like I knew it would. The wind picked up from the west and herded in thick gray clouds. They soon joined together and blotted out the sun. The temperature dropped. A few raindrops fell. It suddenly felt like fall.

I headed back with my load of fish, dogs trotting alongside. A sense of thankfulness settled on me. For this place of unequaled beauty, for friends and fish and changing seasons.

We’ll get our share of Indian summer yet, and some glorious autumn days too. But fall is here, and it couldn^’t have arrived in any better way than it did last weekend.