Yesterday was a beautiful fall day – eighty degrees, sunny and calm. And both Dagmar and I came home after work, shut the windows and sat on the couch. We’re both blah. Neither of us has energy to get much done, other than drag ourselves to work and back. I attribute it to our advancing sissification. We’re getting so far away from nature and the outdoors in general that we’re becoming wussies. The trees make Dagmar sneezy and weepy this time of year, and the grass makes me itchy and cross. When I was a child on the farm, this didn’t happen (scratch scratch). It simply doesn’t seem worth the effort to go outside and sit in our little patch of grass – we have to contend with noisy (and rude) neighbors across the fence, and our view includes rather a lot of barbed wire. There really shouldn’t be barbed wire in a residential district.

Fall always seems to be the season of death to me. Nature undergoes a slow, lingering strangulation by the frosty fingers of winter. It’s hard for me to maintain a good attitude, knowing that the next six months are going to be cold, rainy, muddy and ugly. “But the colors sure are pretty!” you may exclaim, pointing to a tree. I’m color-blind. I think I see about half the “pretty colors” of fall. Oh well…