With every season change my allergies do what my two year old daughter does when she throws a tantrum: go crazy. To give some perspective on what crazy means, here’s a sweet little story.
One time Claire was upset, quite upset. I think it was because we wouldn’t let her use markers. So, as many two year olds do, she was yelling and flailing her arms, hitting anything within her reach—table lamps, books, almost a cactus. After a failed attempt to quiet and calm her with words, I held her arms by her side and, as softly as I could muster, told her she needed to stop throwing a fit and relax. I even gave her the option of coloring with crayons or color pencils. So, logically, she headbutted me in the face, which was upsetting, but at the same time hilarious. Where did she learn to headbutt? Or did she just think, my arms are incapacitated, so, well, I guess I better slam my head into dad’s forehead to free them. It worked.
Anyways, that’s what my allergies are like. With every season change they headbutt me in the face. My eyes become raw, red, puffy, watery, my nose fluctuates between runny and stuffed, and my head feels like a mouth at a marshmallow eating contest. It’s great! Strangely enough, there is something great, or at least nice, about it. My allergies, reacting to whatever change is happening in the air and the world around me, warn me that new things are coming. Right now my senses are going haywire to let me know that fall is around the corner, and that makes me happy.
Words cannot describe how much I love the fall. (I just thought about the phrase, “words cannot describe.” It’s actually quite an adequate, even elegant way of describing something, because let’s face it, so much of what’s wonderful in our human experience is indescribable. Side note finished).
We’ve been gone a lot. Saturday was the first weekend back to routine in our little city. We woke up around 7:15—which is sleeping in for us—Rinda made yummy pancakes, we got ready, and then walked out the door, on our way to the farmer’s market.
What a fantastic place to celebrate the arrival (or soon arrival) of fall: fresh looking and smelling produce (many perfectly at home in the fall color scheme), pet owners walking (showing off) their various breeds of dog, delicious pastries, and colorful, happy people. It was heaven.
But the cherry on top came shortly after we had the absolute pleasure of marching around the farmer’s market with a jazz band, made up almost entirely of old men, as they played “When The Saints Go Marching in.” After that, we were on our way out, making our last lap (the market is set up in a circle around a downtown park) when we were stopped by these succulent words yelled by a vendor: “Handpressed apple cider. A variety of 5 full apples in each glass!” If these words are not fall on the ears, I don’t know what is. We quickly bought two, and the brownish gold liquid disappeared just as rapidly. It was fall on the tongue, and finally, fall in my being.
I’ll drink to that.
I was in such a good mood that I didn’t even think to say “we can’t afford it” when Rinda mentioned wanting to buy a bouquet of flowers. She bought them and they were beautiful.
What a day.
Rinda, Claire, flowers, and if you look closely, an empty cider cup.