Ah, autumn in Oregon. One needs to haul out the entire wardrobe to stay properly dressed for it! One day we may have near-freezing temperatures and strong cold breezes and grab for our fleece-lined jackets and hats; the next, awaken to bright sunshine and a day that warms into the mid-seventies. It's then that we hang up the jacket, discard the hat, and grab our sleeveless shirts and shorts again. But OH! Let us not put the heavier clothing completely away. That would be silly. Oregon is on its seasonal merry-go-round: Around and around the weather goes, and where it will end up nobody knows. And we have our little inside jokes - that the best suntan oil for Oregon is RustOleum, or that there are four true seasons in Oregon: Raining, Ready to Rain, Just Rained, and Sunburn.

This year Summer's been dragging its heels, and Autumn has entered tentatively, blowing cool air kisses at us for a little while, then withdrawing shyly to gauge our mood - No! - we're not ready yet to surrender our sunshine! And Madame Autumn, dressed in her seasonal gown, grabs her red-and-purple- and- gold-leafed train in hand, whirls around and flounces off to wait for another day. Mr. Sun grins broadly and beams at us, in gratitude for our admiration, and we laugh in delight as already-cut-back bushes suddenly shoot forth brand-new blooms. We say things like, "Ah, Indian Summer, it's not fall yet!" Next thing you know, the blooms are withering on the plants and Autumn has made her second or third or fourth entrance, always waltzing to the strains of rustling-leaf rhythms played on the boughs of the shedding trees.

She's grinning now, she knows that Mr. Sun has packed up and is ready to head south to winter over in the southern hemisphere. She has returned with an aire of great self-confidence now...all shyness gone...she knows that we will accept her presence. She is happy to see that some of us actually celebrate her arrival, we revel in the scent of her, heady with wood and burning leaves and crisp air and apple-peel smells and pumpkin pie spices. She understands that to some of us, the revelation of her formal wear for the season is breath-takingly beautiful and not to be dismissed. She has absolutely no sympathy at all for they who (had they been given the choice) would not have invited her this year.

Some folk dread the approach of Autumn and her handmaidens Frost and Rain and, I often think, see death in her and stop there with their minds' eyes. I do not. I see a portion of the cycle of birth, growth, dying, and rebirth. Out of the train of Autumn's gown are shaken leaves that are, yes, dying or dead...but oh how gloriously they are dressed and bejewelled in their rubies and emeralds and topaz for their final dance! And even as they lie on the earth, turning brown and crunchy and unwanted, they don't sorrow over dying - because they know that they will melt back into the earth, and they will live on as they nurture new life coming in the Spring.

And as they lie there, spent but far from done being useful, Miss Frost arrives in her silvery finery, and with her breath blows goodbye kisses to the leaves, and blankets them with crystals of frozen dew. She dances in the morning time, as the distant sun is just peeking over the horizon to see if we miss him yet...and she dances with wild abandon, her laughter chilling the air, tiny feet leaving exquisite patterns on the grassy places. She takes an icy silver-gloved finger and signs her autograph over and over again on our window panes; she scampers all over our gardens and cars, leaving her calling-card at each. But her energy is soon spent for that day; once daylight has arrived in earnest, she scurries off to nap until she can come out to play next morning.

Rain, meantime, stands waiting in the wings, wearing her galoshes in place of dancing shoes, dressed for play and not dance , excited as a giddy schoolgirl. When finally announced, she comes like a flower girl at a formal wedding, grinning, at first marching politely, scattering the tiny droplets of water gently, softly like rose petals everywhere she goes. But she grows more bold and careless with each performance, until finally she throws all caution to the wind and turns her basket upside down on us, laughing heartily at our discomforts.

We are drenched for months on end by her , for she is a true prankster, creating puddles for cars to splash through JUST at the moment we're stepping to the sidewalk in our new dresses and suits; making fresh mud for new shoes to get stuck in; and in general, poking and prodding her way into our everyday, dripping into every nook and cranny where she finds an opening. She's a bold gal, our friend Rain. Hole in the roof? Left a car window open? NO umbrella??!! IN OREGON???!!! Well, all Rain sees is more opportunity for her liquid mischiefs! And there she is, pooling in your attic until just the opportune moment for her to peep into your kitchen through your ceiling tiles, laughing with glee when you sit down on a soggy and mildewed car seat. You'll hear her clapping her hands with joy, her face alight (thus the brief appearance of thunder and lightning here once in a great while) with happiness whenever she gets the chance to wreck a lovely outfit and waterlog a new and costly hairdo - or perhaps create a whopper of a mudslide and take out entire houses!

All in all, though, one must give Madame Autumn her due. When she does come, she comes grandly, unashamedly, dressed like royalty and bringing an entourage that will not fail to be noticed. She comes expecting us all to bow to her...and we do, as we pay homage to her power at the thermostat. She knows she's beautiful. She needs no summer lighting to show off her stuff! She may not bring us the warmth of Summer or the newness of Spring; but she has a grand sort of beauty, a majesty, an aura about her, that bespeaks a different excitement - the excitement of change and of moving forward.

One tries to think of really being able to fully enjoy a caramel apple, a mug of spiced cider, a cup of hot chocolate, a big bowl full of homemade stew or soup, in the warmth of spring or the heat of summer. It does not fit. It is not supposed to. These things connect our hearts to Ms. Autumn and Autumn will carry them forward when it's time for her to dance away and introduce Mrs. Winter. So I say, get out your rain gear, get out your sweaters, keep out a pair of shorts and a tank top until at least November...because Madame Autumn is arriving and the whole of my city is awash with excitement and preparation for her arrival to stay. Light the bonfires! Toss the cinnamon sticks into the cider! Smell the coming frost in the night air! Listen to the geese singing paeons to her beauty as Autumn approaches!

Make way! Make way! She is here! All hail Madame Autumn, give Frost and Rain their recognition. But remember this about Autumn... She's a regal and beautiful grande dame, but in her are also childlike joys and deep satisfactions...jumping into a pile of just-raked leaves, carving pumpkins, harvest, family closeness. She's not to be hated or dreaded. She is a unique and separate cog in the cycle of life. And now, off to mull cider and plan rainy-day crafts!

If This is a Virus, I've Got it Bad!

"It's probably that bug, that virus that's been going around," said a friend. Little did she know that I'd just spent half the afternoon sitting on the edge of my sofa, screaming my fool head off during a Chicago Bears game (hence the orange script here). My team. Loved 'em since 1975. Still do. Loved 'em when nobody else did, cheered when everyone else boo'd. Gotta love any team that can produce a Dick Buttkus or a Refrigerator Perry or a Walter Peyton!

Just prior to that, I'd been yelling encouragement to the Pittsburgh Steelers (hence the black script here). My team. Loved 'em since 1975. Still do. Loved 'em when nobody else did, cheered when everyone else boo'd. Gotta love any team that can produce a Lynn Swan, or a Franco Harris or a Terry Bradshaw!

Whew. Okay. All that said, I must face the fact that I am an NFL two-timing hussy. I am "torn between two loves." When the Bears and Steelers recently faced off against each other, I was hollering for BOTH offenses to "SCORE SCORE SCORE!" and screaming for both defenses to "PUSH THEM BACK, DON'T LET THEM SCORE!" That game nearly was my psychological undoing!


I love NFL football (mostly MY teams!). Years ago, I pondered a question: Why on earth do men invent these roughneck games? Why, since gladiators fought in huge outdoor arenas and colliseums, have men always needed to pound the living daylights out of other men? And why have still other men - and women - loved to watch it? What is it that makes them love doing this?

Then a friend's husband demanded she and I sit in on a Steelers game. He explained the game to me and clued me in on all the terminology and I found myself getting very interested. And I stopped asking and starting getting answers.


There is something universally appealing about being a spectator at a contest of strength. Oh, you can say it's all about who can move the ball the most, who scores points. That may determine the winner of the game but believe you me, we are all watching and rooting for our teams and getting downright giddy when they knock the stuffing out of the opposition, or complete a TD by means of an intricate series of almost ballet-like leaps and bounds. We like to watch them win, for sure...and we boast about the standings, and their averages, and we DO keep track of point spreads and stats. But really, if all we wanted out of the game was to watch several men stand across from several other men and score points with a moving sphere, we could watch tennis. No, it's that thing in us that loves to see muscle pitted against muscle, brawn against brawn, the cave man or woman in us, that loves football.


When I began watching pro ball in the mid-1970's, I was fortunate enough to come in when Dick Buttkus was playing for the Bears. They had a lot of microphones right down near the field, technology not being what it is now...and you could hear these big men growl and grunt and even threaten each other. I can't count how many times I heard Mr. B growl out, "Yer goin' DOWWWNNN!" And his predictions came true more often than not, and it was FUN to watch him hurl big burly men around like so many sacks of wet flour. It was FUN to watch Walter Peyton run that field like a cheetah and leave his opponents behind him like it was no big deal.


When Terry Bradshaw, with the Steelers, threw a pass and Franco Harris caught it, it was FUN to watch all those big muscle-bound men throwing themselves every which way to try to stop him, while he deftly leaped right over them and ran the TD home. It was FUN to watch LC Greenwood, Mean Joe Green, that entire Iron Curtain Defense, just nail the living daylights out of the opposing team.


Yeah, it was exciting when MY team stopped the opposing team's men from scoring points...points matter! It was thrilling to see MY team cross that goal line and score! But the FUN came from hearing the SMACK! of helmet against helmet, the UGH! OOF! of a big man getting the wind half-knocked out of him, the FUN came from watching the huddle on a winter day when players' breathing sent puffs of frosty breath billowing up into the air like so many steam engines standing in the station. It was FUN to watch cleats connect with wet earth when it rained and snowed, tearing up huge divets until the lines were no longer visible, the field a sea of brown soggy earth, and the football had to be set on a towel so that it could be snapped; seeing uniforms so muddy and grass-stained that you were no longer quite sure who was who...you had to know who players were by how they moved and played. Something can be exciting without being fun. This stuff is FUN.


Now, I am a lady who spends most of her time sitting or standing, busying herself doing country crafting, re-finishing furniture, creating art, photography, or cooking up a storm in her kitchen. I write poetry. I sing in public. I feed the birds and squirrels and go outside just to smell my pretty flowers and look at my beautiful garden. I am a woman who loves my family and friends and can spend hours visiting with them and telling them how special they are. I cherish them and grab every opportunity to say "I love you". I am a woman with a very soft heart, a forgiving spirit, a generous nature. I am tender and love to laugh, playful and very accepting of the 'little girl' that still lives in me (she likes to walk in mud puddles and go barefoot and say silly things sometimes), and my heart overflows with wonder at the beauty all around me and within my imagination. Music moves me. I don't suffer stupidity OR hurtful vanities gladly. I can be stubborn and opinionated, but my heart breaks very easily. Yet, there is a part of me that every fall, while rhapsodizing over the falling leaves and changing season, while preparing my first big pot of spiced cider, while wondering if I shall finish the French Country chair, or create a new design for my Christmas cards, can't wait to grab a cold beverage, sit down on that couch, turn on the game, get hubby beside me, and start pounding the sofa arms, inching forward until I nearly fall on the floor, and screaming like a banshee over my teams.


The BEARS...the STEELERS...Loved 'em since 1975. Still do. Always loved being an artistic, creative, tender-hearted lady. Still do. Somehow, it all works. Go figure. And while you ponder, would you be so kind as to pass the popcorn?