Fall is my least favorite season. Joe's, too. It's the leaves. He's thinking, "Raking." I'm thinking, "Decimation." Barrenness is just a leaf-drop away, to last till crocus blossoms pop through the soil. Really, though, I'm thinking, "Another cherished summer bites the dust."
Dr. Phil could have some fun, with this one. Um, "Why not enjoy Fall's beauty and save the desolate one for your least favorite?" Good point, Doc. But seriously, there are a few more psychological points to consider. Maybe we can hook up on another day?
Back at the ranch, the antidote is to salvage reminders of my summertime favorites, as best I can. Occasionally, I'm inspired by a new discovery. Such was the case when I confined dried hydrangea blooms in a small half-bath. Normally, they inhabit Gran's huge bowl, in an open space. Who knew that when in close quarters, their scent is comparable to that of the finest floral perfumes? Beats fake Febreze, for sure.
Ah, the bright side.
