As much as I resisted the idea it was time to go home, back to my hibernaculum. It happens every year. I am stoic and brave as my kids go back to their non-summer world; I assure myself that I will just enjoy the quiet and the beauty and the cooler days and the uncrowded streets. And I do. But then? Ah, but then… some signs of serious fall appear. A morning such that I struggle over getting the gas logs pilot lit but then feel guilty about enjoying the warmth. The mornings become too chilly to have coffee out on my little deck, and a sweat shirt feels good. There is little activity to see on the waterway. A visit to the beach at twilight finds only a few of the committed still waiting for the big ones.
My daughter, Sigrid, had kindly offered to drive down and help me load my car and her SUV. I spent the day before packing things up for the move and completing my last two photo-related projects for the club. Moving day dawned, however, with the first fog of the season. Is that a message of “Go Home!”, or what? I quickly unpacked the camera and went pixel gathering.
The beach certainly wasn’t inviting.
Nor was the bay. No movement, no sound … Go Home!
Even Jonathan was sad that I was leaving.