Have you ever read the short story The Swimmer by John Cheever (1912-1982)? It's ostensibly about a man who decides to swim home across county from a garden party he is attending. The final paragraph always gives me a chill:
The place was dark. Was it so late that they had all gone to bed? Had Lucinda stayed at the Westerhazys' for supper? Had the girls joined her there or gone someplace else? Hadn't they agreed, as they usually did on Sunday, to regret all their invitations and stay at home? He tried the garage doors to see what cars were in but the doors were locked and rust came off the handles onto his hands. Going toward the house, he saw that the force of the thunderstorm had knocked one of the rain gutters loose. It hung down over the front door like an umbrella rib, but it could be fixed in the morning. The house was locked, and he thought that the stupid cook or the stupid maid must have locked the place up until he remembered that it had been some time since they had employed a maid or a cook. He shouted, pounded on the door, tried to force it with his shoulder, and then, looking in at the windows, saw that the place was empty.
This time of year always makes me think of this story. I suppose that it is fitting. Autumn is, after all, the season of death and decay. Then why is it my favourite season? And why do I feel more alive as the temperature and humidity and leaves start to drop? Everything seems more romantic in the fall… more important in the fall. Here are some things that matter even more to me in the fall… The Kinks, When Harry Met Sally, Brian Ferry's version of These Foolish Things, sweaters and tweedy skirts, kites, single malts, dogs and walks, walks in the woods, smoke from a fireplace, fairs, holding hands, dogs…
I hope you enjoy this autumn, wherever you are.
