Ebb and Flow

Fall finally arrived in the upper Plains. For some, the loss of summer is nearly unbearable. For others, it is a blessed relief. No surprise that I identify with the latter. As my long-suffering husband often hears me say, "If I wanted New Orleans weather, I would live in New Orleans." Unfortunately, he had to hear that statement two months longer than usual. Thank you, El Nino.

The change of seasons provides a soothing orderliness to those of us who are perched upon the northern latitudes of the Earth. And there is no better way to experience this than a vacation during the transition months. My husband and I attempt to schedule a getaway during late spring and mid-fall. The chance to submerge oneself into the sights and sounds of a shiny new season is a delicious experience.

Spring is filled with tree buds, warbling birds and scurrying little critters. The air is ripe with possibilities and the sensation of warmth nuzzles the dormant into life. Our back road travels reveal palettes that stun the eyes. Sunlight streams into our cabin window, giving us longer days as the Earth begins its tilt toward the sun. Frogs croak their love songs when daylight wanes. Twigs snap as creatures of the night begin their nocturnal business.  Stars sparkle on a black velvet canvas.

Tourist businesses are also infected with the potential of spring. Shops are spiffed up in anticipation of a new season. Clerks are friendly and eager to please. Conversations are inquisitive and complimentary. Shelves are stocked with an assortment of come hither goodness. Outdoor tables are shifted into place as the smell of grilled food drifts through the air. Fudge shops display their wares in street side window cases, enticing chocoholics to abandon all restraint.

Fall crackles forth with eye-popping brilliance. The air is ripe with the pungency of burning wood and decaying leaves. The sepia toned landscape is filled with brown subtleties and blood red splashes from sumac trees. Daylight hours dwindle as the Earth's northern axis turns its back on the sun. Shadows slide across our cabin windows with a reminder that winter is on its way. Crows and chickadees banter back and forth with their avian conversations.  The darkness of night is entwined with brisk air and the sharp light of the moon. The terrain prepares for its winter rest.

Tourist caterers also begin their fade into fall. Heavily discounted items are pulled to the front of shops. Shelves are minimally supplied and boxes are scattered around, awaiting their winter storage. Restaurants list the menu items that are no longer available. Clerks experience a fragility that reflects a long season nearing its end. Customer service becomes less urgent and more obligatory. Hours of business are tapered and "closed for the season" signs begin to pop up.

Many of us in the northern plains may never experience the froth of the sea pounding on our doorsteps or the subtle recession of waves pulling water away from the landscape. We do, however, understand the power of masses revolving in our universe. We know and feel the rhythmic surge of spring and the ebb of fall. And we are grateful for the wonder of it all.