FALL is all rich colors and scents:
A pot of wide-egg-noodle chicken soup, with knuckle-length celery and bits of onion simmered in the rich broth beneath the tiny topaz beads of chicken fat.
A far-faraway pumpkin balloon drifting over a fading field. I'd love to see their view someday.
A vase of golden calla lilies. I've had them perish to that color, but never saw them fresh.
Caro’s new toe-wiggle rug for the hardwood floor beside her bed---all wool and two yards wide. It’s handmade, soft as a baby lamb, and both sides are simply works of jewel-toned art, from a walking-distance yard sale.
“My brother-in-law made that moren’t fifty years ago, and we had it down by the fireplace since we moved into this house in ’67.” I bought it, rolled it, shouldered it, and brought it home like a soft log.
Last year’s wreath, still just as bright.
Ditto for the burgundish silky one on the mirror over "Mother's couch" upstairs.
And a bright Hello to my Dear Friend Kim, who has suffered a bad fall, and who will be off her feet for a while. Wish I could be there to help look after you, BabyGirl.