The other morning finally brought temps down into the 30’s;
this after a schizophrenic fall made it difficult to discern if we were indeed
heading towards winter, or straight back to spring.
Just this past Saturday, Z and I came upon a small bunch of
confused crocuses happily reaching toward the warm, sunny, October
sky.
However, once they saw all the pumpkins
scattered about the neighboring lawns the expected finger pointing began, at
least in a metaphorical sense, since crocuses don’t have fingers to point.
“I
told you this didn’t seem right! Wayyyy waaaaay
too early! What are we going to do, now; I didn’t pack my woolies...did you? I
told you not to listen to Carla...Carla always jumps the gun!”
At least that’s what I heard in my head...in
reality who knows what they were saying.
They’re crocuses. They have a language all
their own.
Anyway, it was cold the other morning.
Really cold.
Winter cold.
So, there I sat in our sun room, minus the sun,
listening intently for signs of hot water meandering its way
through the pipes and into my 92 year old cast iron radiators.
Did I mention it was cold?
Shivering, transfixed with every drip and gurgle,
hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee, I heard a rustling outside, by the front door.
More of a shuffling, really, which could only
mean one thing...the Zombies Across the Street were back.
But, how could that be? The Zombies haven’t
been around for over a year; not since they decided to pack up and take what I
perceived to be an extended vacation with some ghouls out west
