Walking through Hobby Lobby the other day, Robert and I came upon these neat seasonal kitchen towels …
I stopped to chat with them for a bit, while HR wandered off … who knows where in the gargantuan store.
“Uh, did you know that Fall is not actually a color?” I probably somewhat ‘I’m-a-retired-professor’ asked the towels.
They answered immediately, and I might add, a bit mockingly: “Uh, you call yourself a retired professor, and yet you don’t understand simple literary devices.”
Taken back a bit by the question, I could not think of a single literary device.
The towels, sensing my embarrassment and feeling a little sorry for me, gently explained: “The statement ‘fall is my favorite color’ primarily uses a literary device called synesthesia.”
“Right,” I said, trying to remember if I had ever heard of “synesthesia.”
I turned away and quickly Googled.
Synesthesia involves blending senses—in this case, treating a season (“fall,” a concept related to time and nature) as if it were a color (a visual property), thus associating the qualities of the season (the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows of the leaves) with the single concept of a “color.” Google AI
“Y’all ARE right!“ I sorta yelled. (It doesn’t take much to get me excited.)
“Fall has always been my favorite season. And now it’s my favorite color too! Thank you!”
But they were already starting to chat with the next customer, explaining Sensational Synesthesia.
I love these fall colors somewhat hiding in the morning shadows here in Historic District Savannah.
Glorious chrysanthemums at a market we visited recently.
Mama and her cute little triplets we saw on a walk.
My jalapeño cornbread last night.Black and White Cookies & Pan de Muerto at our Day of the Dead Dinner
Approaching Autumn often finds me in what I call (probably foolishly) my Melancholy Joy Frame of Mind or Temperament: 50% Despondency at Summer’s Goodbye and 50% Delight at Fall’s Coming Orange Cool.
And as I find myself getting close to Autumn this year, I realize that I too—and not just 2024—am in my September Stage of Life.
Approaching Autumn pulled no punches this morning when I unexpectedly ran into her in, of all places, the shared second floor hallway of our old Savannah apartment building.
About a week ago, Robert had placed a beautiful, summery-looking orange day lily with several blossoms in one of the hall windows.
This morn, when I opened our front door and walked out into the hallway, I saw her there in the window. Approaching Autumn herself.
I walked over cautiously to her. 
A bit dismayed at what I saw, I clumsily asked, “What’s going on? You don’t look like summer anymore.”
“Neal. It’s time. I’m Falling.”
“ I still don’t get it,” I complained. “You can’t just out of the blue … BE Fall. You are Summer.”
“Do I look like Summer now?”
I stood for a bit … stuck. In between seasons. HR growing anxious behind me to get on with our breakfast date.
Approaching Autumn, sensing my frustration, asked, “Weren’t you an English major in college? Didn’t you read Frost? He understood. Let him remind you:
I can’t say I completely and lovingly embraced her/his explanation. But I did find a melancholy beauty in its Truth.
I started to walk away when Approaching Autumn spoke her last: “And just so you know Neal, you don’t exactly look like summer anymore either.”
But she smiled as she made the comment. I released some pent-up tension and paid her back with a new season Melancholy Joy smile of my own.
“Let’s go,” I said to Robert.
And with creaky knees, I tackled the narrow 1850s stairwell and headed outside into yet another new day.
