Fall Snapshot:

Morning Walk

by Robin Bonner

Early to Rise
I awake before sunrise with the urge to get out of the house. Listening to myself for a change, I don several layers of clothing as a buffer against the 30° November-in-Pennsylvania morning, scrounge around for some ear muffs and gloves (which haven’t surfaced yet this season), and head out onto the rural road in front of our house.

It is good to be alone and outdoors early in the morning. My husband, Gary, and I have made a habit of taking early-morning forays—bicycling the nearby Perkiomen Trail in summer, hiking up Spring Mountain in winter, and mixing things up in spring and fall. But sometimes I need to just accompany myself.

Walking the 2-mile loop amid the colorful foliage, I am immediately reminded of (and faced with) the reality of fall. I had forgotten how much I really do love it! In hanging onto the departing season—for me, that would be summer, which I usually clench with a death grip—we sometimes forget to watch for signs of the incoming season and embrace them. Each season has its place, each one beautiful in its own right.

Fall is majestic and grand, like a colorful but classy dowager going out with a bang. I love the trees: the splendid red and yellows against gray skies, the dark trunk silhouettes appearing on cue, the cleanness of the ground cover now removed of vegetation—even the crisp coolness of the air. With the mugginess of summer gone, I can breathe again, and with leaves gone from the trees, once again I can see for miles. I never realize I need those things in my life until I have them in the fall.

Of course, if I told you that fall is my favorite season, I’d be lying. Because in spring, I’d tell you the same thing. And in winter, and in summer. In truth, I love them all. The seasons of the year are an amazing design, a wonderous process of nature, and I appreciate the beauty in all of them. One relieves us in advance of what would become the monotony of another.

When I’m left with my own thoughts, they usually turn to such matters. And, such is the case on this beautiful fall morning.

My brisk walk turns into a saunter as I pull my gloves from my hands every 50 feet or so to snap another photo. Did you ever notice how many different and equally glorious trees there are in the fall to photograph? As I capture one, another appears around the bend. And, if I stop for one, I feel the need to stop for them all. So I decide to quit chiding myself for not pushing through quickly and getting more of a workout. I just go with the urge to take snapshots and enjoy every minute of it.

Summer into Fall
How things change from one season to the next, whether we’re ready or not. Time moves forward, and we are swept along with it, forced to adapt. I find myself thinking back to summer.

Gary and I spent much of the summer celebrating with family and friends: graduations, showers, family reunions, and even an ordination. A friend and I organized our first neighborhood picnic. Gary and I sailed regattas with the Nockamixon Sail Club and enjoyed the group’s annual picnic—a Jimmy Buffett–style pig roast. It was fun to turn a lake-front picnic area into Margaritaville.

And, we carved out precious time to spend with our immediate family. Our older daughter, Amie, came in from an extended business trip on August 1, arriving here on a Tuesday and staying through the week. Her husband, Todd, joined us, as did our younger daughter, Sarah, for the long weekend. Highlights included some retail therapy for Amie and me and a day of rock-climbing for all of us at Lancaster County’s Chickie’s Rock (followed by strombolis at The Sugar Bowl in Millersville, Gary and my old college stomping ground). The Bonner family reunion in Emmaus, PA, followed on Saturday. The week ended all too soon.

August rushed past as I helped run a fundraiser for a local political group. How to get 20 people to sell 1000 raffle tickets in 45 days or less? Ironically, the bowling party landed on our calendar on the day after Hurricane Irene was to sweep through the area. The event went well, despite the setbacks provided by flooded creeks.

In late August, Gary and the Mount St. Joseph Academy robotics team parted ways. Gary had been the Firebirds’ lead engineering mentor for 12 years, and his volunteer position there had become such a part of our life that we will certainly feel its absence. However, we're looking forward to spending more time together this winter—enjoying new activities we haven't had time for in the past as well as doing some additional things around the house. And as for robotics, Gary’s already had several requests from other teams for his assistance. He’s also received an offer to officiate at FIRST’s local regional events. So, for us, robotics will still be around, but the context will change.

We considered taking a Labor Day weekend camping trip to Mount Desert Island, ME, one of our favorite vacation spots. However, we chose instead to spend the week at home, tackling a huge household painting project. That was the better choice, as it turned out, because it rained almost every day.

I turned over other new stones this fall: I attended a two-day writer’s conference in New York City sponsored by the International Women’s Writers Guild (IWWG), where I met many talented, friendly women writers with interests both similar to and much different from my own. Very inspiring! I also spent a lot of time with my younger daughter Sarah after she and her boyfriend broke up, standing by in support as she rerouted her life. What are moms for, after all?

Fall sailing is a real gift—a segue from summer to fall if I’ve ever seen one. Gary did more of it than I did (he skippered a regatta the weekend I attended the IWWG event in NYC), but what sailing I did, I loved. Nowhere else can you feel the change in season better than on a boat: more layers of clothing, more reason not to land in the water, and generally more wind—and therefore more excitement. A lot more wind, in fact. Fall racing can be downright scary. The day Gary sailed without me, two boats capsized and one boom broke in the howling, erratic wind (blowing in the 20s with gusts up to 40 mph). The race was eventually abandoned and the regatta scrapped. In all, though, I love to take my summer sport into the fall with me, like a security blanket that assures me that summer fun will come again. By November, however, as the weather changes and we move more deeply into fall, I’m usually very happy to give it up, as I think, “What the heck am I doing out here on this boat, freezing?”

By Halloween, Amie was off on another business trip—one that would extend through the holidays—so just before, the Bonners reconvened for another weekend of family fun. On Friday evening, Amie, Sarah, and I modeled the booty we acquired during our retail therapy session that afternoon for the guys while the potatoes au gratin baked (and Gary cooked the steaks). On Saturday, we carved pumpkins during a freak snow storm (the California contingent—Amie and Todd—just loved that added twist) as we sipped Sarah’s “special” apple cider and watched the snowflakes fall. (I can’t remember the last time everyone was home together to carve pumpkins—when Amie was a senior in high school? And, I'm sure we never had snow while doing it!) That evening we somehow still managed to make the 45-minute drive to the Spring Mill Café, a cute little French restaurant that I had been wanting to try. The Francophiles in the family (that is, all of us), thoroughly enjoyed this BYOB. Dinner at Grandmom’s on Sunday topped off a perfect weekend.

It’s funny how walking early in the morning can turn one’s thoughts to food. Gary says that anything can turn my thoughts to food, and I suppose that is true. Still, an empty stomach can contribute hugely!

Looking Ahead
My rambling thoughts of summer merging into fall draw me back to the present: the colorful trees now brightening, basking in the glow of the rising sun. I round the corner onto Schwenk Road (where Amie first learned to ride a bicycle), breathing in the still surprisingly cold air. At this point, my fingers are frozen; I can take my gloves off only so many times in 30° weather before I feel the effects.

I photograph the trees, the LEED-certified house. This one's my favorite. Out front, near the street, stands a mailbox that sports two placards—one on either side—with the quotes “Look to the Stars” and “Dare to Dream.” I scheme to meet its owner(s); I’m sure we’d hit it off. I photograph the dilapidated fences, the old homestead (circa 1700s?). I just love that road, with a history that goes back so much further than my own family’s, yet both stories are still so entwined. I turn left onto Zieglerville Road, the home stretch.

I’m teaching writing at Montgomery County Community College again this semester. My thoughts wander to my students. So earnest, so dedicated. Many are nontraditional—they’ve been out of school for a while and are just getting back into it. If they succeed in my class, they can go on to take basic composition (which is required) and at some later date graduate from college. I think of my full-time job managing college textbook projects and how it leaves me little time or energy for teaching (and vice versa). I love both jobs and the challenges of each—but how to reconcile the two is the real challenge. For some reason, mulling all this over while walking on a crisp November morning satisfies me. Like an oyster working on that grain of sand, I hope for a pearl.

I look ahead to the holidays—Thanksgiving, Christmas, and all the craziness and joy they bring. Summer is just a distant memory now. I don’t know why I hang onto it so much—summer, that is—but I know every year I do it, and I come to the same conclusion.

The place where Zieglerville Road turns into Main Street in Spring Mount is a narrow road much easier to negotiate early on a Saturday morning than on a weekday. The hill and curve on that sleepy road can pose a real problem if cars come from both directions, essentially squeezing a pedestrian off the road. (There is no shoulder—the pavement either drops off abruptly into the woods and down to a creek, or almost immediately butts up against an old barn.) But with nary a vehicle in sight, I’m able to trek up the hill, cross the road at the top, and continue my walk down the other side, my thoughts undisturbed by so much as one car engine.

Then it's left onto Fulmer Road, and up that last hill, the grand finale. Though my fingers are still cold, I’m feeling the heat of that climb. Coming down the street, I snap one last shot: of the carved pumpkins lining the steps in front of our house. Hooray for fall!


Robin Bonner is editor of Empty Nest. For more about Robin, see About Us.


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