The last time I trimmed my fingernails I decided to take a few extra minutes to pamper my hands. I filed and buffed each nail, and then treated my hands to a tropical scented “scrub” using a concoction I received as a party favor at a baby shower four years ago  - which tells you how often I perform anything other than basic maintenance.

I rinsed away the gritty granules from the scrub, soaked my hands in warm water, and then smothered them in thick Swedish hand cream. As I massaged the cream over the tops of each hand, I could feel tears coming to my eyes. "My little hands," I thought, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for all the things they do - they dance over piano keys and grip the handles of our Malmark bells. They translate my feelings onto paper in the letters I write my friend and put my thoughts into words through the keys on this computer. They prepare food for my family, and clean the home we live in. They light candles on dusky fall evening, and pour wine into glasses. They lovingly pat my dogs and tickle my grandson; they hold tight to my husband’s hand when we’re walking in our neighborhood or sitting side by side watching television. 

In my elementary school days during the 1960’s, we had regular disaster drills. The alarm would sound and we were instructed to go out into the hallway and crouch on our knees with our heads under the concrete coat racks that were built solidly into the wall. I had no idea what the purpose of these drills was - as far as I was concerned, it could have been nothing more than a physical exercise. I was only six or seven, and if my teacher tried to explain that the exercise was a feeble attempt to protect us against the fallout of a nuclear attack by the Russians -well, none of that made any impact on me. 

Which is just as well, because if I had understood that some other country might drop a bomb big enough to destroy everything and everyone I knew and loved, I would have been scared shitless and scarred for life.

September was a glorious month here in southeastern Michigan. Practically every morning we work to crystal clear blue skies, bright sunshine, and perfect temperatures in the mid-70’s. Usually by mid-September, the garden annuals look spiny and yellow, but my impatiens are still bright, growing, and blooming furiously. I haven’t had the heart to pull them up, even though I’ve interspersed bright yellow and orange mums in the garden for bits of fall color.

But Tuesday afternoon the sky turned the color of a WWII battleship, and rain pelted our deck. The wind chimes were a virtual symphony of sound. The winds of change were blowing. Fall was coming in.