That Time of the Year



While his eyes saw the sky, his soul saw Heaven. - K. Smith

I have never really been a fan of football. However, there is something about this time of the year for me that conjures up vivid recollections of the start of a new school year and of high school football games. I am sorry to see the end of summer but I do enjoy the traditions that go along with the changes of the seasons and in the weather. Well, at least it means a change in the wardrobe.

I guess my memories all start from when as youngster, I would accompany my father to the Friday night events. I would diligently plan ahead to insure that I had an ample supply of confetti.  Mostly it was just torn up pieces of newspaper that I would shred during the week with my friends. If I was really lucky I could get my hands on the fancy kind from the keypunch machines. I never really watched the game much. But I could be found jumping up, shouting, wildly waving my arms around, throwing up handfuls of confetti, and cheering while I was secretly waiting for the halftime show. I knew some of the music the marching band played because it was the same stuff every week and I loved watching the majorettes. Oh, I never ever was one myself-despite spending hours whirling and twirling about and being the proud owner of several batons during my carefree childhood dancing days.

My own high school days are decades behind me now but the warm days and cool nights remind me of high school football games as if they were yesterday. The beginning of a school year brought the anticipation of new and exciting adventures. I guess that's what it was. Not really sure. I remember decorating the floats for Homecoming, painting signs for the games, and selling boosters to pay for those saddle shoes and bobby socks.  Now, I listen to the high school band practicing in the evening from the rocker on my front porch, blanket on my lap.  Through the evening haze I can see the glare off in the distance of the powerful stadium lights and I feel myself drift away. My head starts to dip. I  can hardly keep my eyes open and I wonder how I was ever able to stay up so late.  Gotta go. It's way past my bedtime now.



Few things leave me as speechless as does the elegant lipstick red canna.

The greeting is now faded by my garden rock under the favorite Japanese Maple still says "Welcome to Tamara's Garden."

The Nicotina Plant. Though a wildflower, I read once that they grow at Giverny. That of course, has made it an heirloom flower as treasured as a jewel for me. And the deer do not like them. Miracle of miracles.