Fall is this mixture of beauty and sadness that takes the breath. The sumac is the color of fire engines, and the falling sycamore leaves the size of small boats. There is water in the branch, but not so much as to disturb the dam that my husband’s grandchildren built with sticks last summer. It holds.
Hank the dog has renewed energy and gives the squirrels chase. From my chair I watch, and listen as Iris’ trembly voice echoes like life from hill to hill. She’s bona fide country, and sounds just right.
Last week I was at the opposite end of this mostly bosky state, down where the ocean laps live oaks and the light has a different and ethereal quality. I can never decide what I love most – the bright coast or the dark hills. The nice thing, I can visit both.
Fall makes me melancholy. I remember the dear but dead, a population that keeps growing. I can’t seem to concentrate on current events, which at my age have a repetitious quality.
In my younger, more ambitious years, I’d be writing about the presidential contest, as clear a choice as ever I remember. I would have weighed in on the debates and the debacles, the lies and the noise. Talk about barrels full of fish.
But the white men in gray suits seem to have political commentary covered; the same ones who were writing when I was a newly minted reporter are pretty much still in place on the op-ed pages of America. Propped up for show, like ailing Soviet leaders who won’t go away, they wax philosophical. The political wags I admire most are gone now. Mike Royko, Molly Ivins. What would they say?
I might be inspired to comment if the late Harold Johnson – the only person with whom I agreed 100 percent politically – were still around. A wise man who worked in an Alabama textile mill seven days a week, Harold would be characterizing Mitt as a silk-stocking Republican.
Syndicated columnist Rheta GrimsleyJohnson lives near Iuka. Contact her at Iuka, MS 38852.