This fall, the squirrel population seems to be exploding.
I see them in my front yard.
I hear them scurry along the side of my house.
I watch them scamper across my deck outside the kitchen window.

Usually they are carrying a walnut in their mouth.
They have a vast supply at my house since we have a large walnut tree on the front lawn.
It is the tree on which my youngest daughter wanted to have a tree swing.
It is a beautiful tree, but this time of year, the debris that falls on the grass is extensive.

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There is something about dusk that intrigues me.
The shadows of light and the colors of the sky add a mystery to what is otherwise familiar.
I love to see things silhouetted against an autumn sky at dusk.
In those moments I would love to be able to paint the picture I see.

My husband was driving the other night and I was next to him.
I got to take in all the scenery that I miss when I’m not the passenger.
It was the power lines that captured my attention.
Silhouetted against the autumn sky was a line of birds too numerous to count.

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When my daughter, who is now a teacher, was in late elementary school, she used to pet sit.
People in the neighborhood hired her because she loved animals.
People in the neighborhood hired her because they could trust her.
They knew that she would be faithful to care for their animals and their house as well.

She took her job very seriously.
Quite often, she would pet sit for our neighbors next door, who have since moved away.
We shared the same last name, which made it quite interesting for the mailman.
They had a large golden retriever and two cats.

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No matter how meticulously you plan, it’s inevitable.
No matter if you make lists or not, it happens.
No matter if you have two sets of eyes to do the final check, it doesn’t make a difference.
Things are forgotten.

We moved our daughter into college today.
With four siblings before her, we have this down to a science.
We know which bins to use.
We know the system.

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Today is my birthday.
Today is my fifty-seventh time around the sun.
Birthdays are an event.
Birthdays are a milestone.

I remember when we would take a day trip and go down the shore.
It was a special day that started early in the morning.
A short time on the beach, jumping the waves, and making sand castles.
A visit to the boardwalk at night.

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I was six months pregnant with my fourth child.
It was our tenth anniversary that particular October.
Our child was to be born in January.
It was the perfect time to get away.

The other three children were home in good hands.
My husband and I went off to Massachusetts to see the amazing fall foliage.
We went to Stockbridge, sat on the front porch of an old inn and drank mulled cider.
We walked around the quaint little town.

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I heard her talking behind me as I stood in line.
It was primary day and I was waiting to vote.
I was people watching as I waited.
I waved to a few people I knew as I stood waiting my turn.

I could hear at least three different voices behind me.
They were engaged in conversation.
A young girl was standing in front of me.
A woman behind me was giving her voting instructions.

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I sat in the chair getting ready for my pedicure.
It is one of those little luxuries for which I am grateful.
It is always so much fun to pick the nail polish color.
However, I always choose from the same color palette, practically the same color each time.

I looked down at my watch.
I knew that the time could not possibly be correct.
It was showing a time that was a half hour before my appointment.
I knew that when I got out of my car the clock told me that I was three minutes early.

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I see the two yellow daffodils on my windowsill.
They are in a Styrofoam cup.
They are bending down looking as if they are bowing to the crowd.
They were a gift.

They were a gift from a precious little boy.
He and his brother came to help my husband bring the deck furniture from the basement.
They and their two brothers spend a lot of time in our home.
For these two, who are the older brothers, being “hired” for a few jobs is encouraging.

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What?
Excuse me?
Can you repeat that?
I can’t hear you.

That seems to be the refrain for many of us.
Sometimes we want things repeated for legitimate reasons.
Sometimes we really cannot hear the person talking to us.
Sometimes we are putting off the inevitable words that will follow.

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