Walking through Savannah’s Colonial Park Cemetery this morning with HR, we came across this bench.
There has to be a story somewhere. Is the story’s central character Mary Helen Ray, whose name is on the bench?
Or maybe one of the nearly 700 folks who died during a yellow fever epidemic in Savannah: “The most macabre bit of history involves a subtly tweaked fact on a historical marker about the yellow fever. According to the marker, ‘nearly 700’ victims of the 1820 yellow fever epidemic were buried in a mass grave, but historical records allegedly show that exactly 666 people are buried in the grave. Nearly 700, indeed.” savannahnow.com.
Here’s a link to an interesting story about Colonial Park Cemetery: 
3. Clean water to drink. I SO take this incredible blessing for granted.
4. Our wonderful morning hike yesterday at J. F. Gregory Park down in Richmond Hill, about 45 minutes south of Savannah.
The park is home to a huge series of canals built in the 1800s (by enslaved persons) for rice cultivation. The canals flow into the Oveechee River, which flows into the Atlantic Ocean.
Seriously?
5. Flowers. We usually buy an inexpensive bouquet or two each week, divide them up and spread them around the house.
Flowers, like food, are essential to life.
Wait, I just realized you can see me taking that picture in the mirror. Our study window, looking out over Savannah’s busy East Broad Street
May this weekend flower you with joy. At least, a little bit.
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.
NealEnJoy 