SC
Once again the dogwoods are the
early harbingers of approaching autumn. Soon
the sassafras and sumac will contribute their pastel hues of orange and
scarlet. Once again we anticipate the taste of ripe persimmons, the appearance
of the ubiquitous pumpkin, the plaintive calls of southbound geese, and all the
traditional trappings of harvest. Despite all these pleasant expectations, the
close of summer and approach of fall invariably result in a feeling of
melancholy for me. As a young man I
tended to envision time as a vast, unlimited resource; time it seemed was an
inexhaustible sea. Now in the autumn of
my life, each hour is increasingly precious, and I thirst for each minute as it
drips away from an alarmingly finite pool.
It seems now a natural tendency to weigh the substantial pile of spent
autumns which I find behind me, against the increasingly dwindling weight of
those that I might reasonably expect to find ahead. Still, fall is traditionally
and unquestionably a time of thanksgiving and celebration. We take stock of a year rapidly waning; brace
ourselves against winter’s icy chill, thank God for our many blessings during
the innocuous months now behind, and pray with some trepidation that our careful
preparations thus far will prove sufficient to see us through to spring. In the
meantime, prepare the table, cherish friends, and enjoy the incomprehensible feast
of life. SC
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