The leaves have begun to fall in earnest around Fake New Jersey. A nice layer of them carpet my front lawn awaiting my attention with the rake. If only I could stop coughing long enough to get out there and scoop them all up into a ginormous, bejeweled pile.
I'm sick again. On the tail end of my last cold, I caught another one. Or it caught me. Either way, I am under the weather. MM is still coughing out his bronchitis, poor guy.
This makes three weeks of sickness in our little house. In our Nyquil haze, we're kind of missing out on, "the magical, golden enchantment of autumn days (the wine of the seasons, when the year held its breath at the approach of frost and fire)." No walks around our beautiful neighborhood yet, though we hold out hope for more porch time in our wicker chairs.
Thanksgiving is next week, so we are working hard to get better before we cram our house full of people and food. Tonight we're buying dining room chairs. Early next week we hope to have my piano delivered and tuned, ready for little fingers to play carols. On Thursday I plan to spelunk in the Scary Wedding Room in hopes of finding the fruit bowl.
There are still delights to be had: vanilla scented candles, delicious homemade soup, cranberry-chocoloate-chip-oatmeal cookies, flannel jammies, jazz music, good books to read...
We'll make it.