Every October

At dawn, there was a heavy blanket of fog over the river.  This is a bittersweet sight for people who spend one last night at the cabin before it is closed for another season. At least it is for people like me who love the summer months and get a little bit melancholy as the days grow shorter, darker, and colder. Autumns, and fog, and cabins by rivers are mixed blessings in October.

Over the weekend, I sealed nearly everything in plastic to keep the mice, who were surely watching from the meadow, out of my bedding and silverware. In October, I am  an optimist when it comes to the war on mouse poop. Come May, I will discover that they have done an end run around the aluminum foil sheets in the drawers and the plastic bags in the closet. I removed all the paper towels and toilet paper but probably missed at least one open box of tissue. I will, no doubt, come back to a shredded mess somewhere. Oh, well. In October, you just do the best you can. You hope that no chipmunks or squirrels move in for the winter and pray, instead, for a nice, plump, little weasel who enjoys mice.

The mist rises and the sun shines. The red oak leaves flutter in the morning breeze. You hear a single gun shot far off in the distance.

You pack up the car with the dog and the rest of the groceries, check the windows and doors one last time, and say goodbye. The cabin by the river will sleep through the winter in her new coat of red stain.

Waiting for Spring, like me.

 

 

 

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