The Loons I

Quiet.

A Loon murmurs to itself as it paddles from the spot where a huge trout slapped the surface of the water after a frolicsome jump.

Quiet again.

It's cold; no, crisp.

That's how mom would describe a fall morning; not freezing, not warm. The grass would soak the cuffs of your pants if you walked on it on "crisp" mornings. The birdsong had a mournful quality on crisp mornings because there would be less of them now. You could hear individual chirpeggios echoing in the empty, sullen morn. The dog would stop and lift his nose, patiently attending to the sound, the smell, the soul of early autumn air.

The scent of bacon and eggs, white toast and butter and Lipton's tea suffused the fabric of the comfortable little nook in a corner of the kitchen. By the time we'd get downstairs, Dad would almost be ready to go out the back door, never the front, on his way to work. We would still be wiping the sleep sand out of our eyes as we hugged him and kissed him goodbye for another long day.

After breakfast was a ritual of inestimable soul-comfort. We went to a parochial school, my sister and I. We wore uniforms, that mom ironed on a "hide-away" ironing board, which mysteriously appeared from what looked to be a cupboard in the kitchen. She'd press the crease on my grey dress pants, and I'd slip into them quickly to indulge in the ecstasy of warm clothes on a cool morning.

Simple pleasures are the best.

I'm cold.

No, crisp.

The trees are still, no wind.