As I compose this particular series of thoughts, it is a Saturday morning and I am sitting on the deck of my “Shangri-La by the Shore” — a humble shack, on an over-sized pond, situated four hours north and east of the Center of the Universe.

Thanks to a weekend-long Labor Day blow-out at the expansive estate of my good friend, Esquire, I have several ideas as to what topics might grace this essay. Several of the revelers at this gathering (known in these sagas as Jimmy, Firewalker, Mort, Arnold, Tommy, and Harry) regularly serve to inspire my weekly tales because they say and do things that are funnier than bouncing on a pogo-stick in a vat of Jell-O.

With brilliant and eccentric friends like these fine folks, funny situations are easy to find — massaging their commentary into something acceptable for the printed page is an entirely different story.

However, as I enjoy my second cup of coffee and ponder the subject of this piece, I find my thoughts becoming distracted. The morning temperature is just cool enough to cause a slight haze to lift from the water’s surface and, squinting through the haze to the opposite shore, a stand of maple trees has grabbed my attention.

It is the first week of September. Labor Day festivities are not yet a week in the past, memories of summer vacations are still fresh and vivid – and, in the Thumb of Pure Michigan, the leaves on the maple trees are already starting to take on a tell-tale reddish hue.

Granted, the latitude here is about a hundred miles north of the paradise I refer to as the Center of the Universe, but this is a sure sign that summer is about to depart and fall is already knocking on our door.

I like autumn and most of what it brings. I like sleeping with the windows open on cool, crisp nights. I like the foggy haze of morning that burns off as the sun slides on a lower path across the southern sky.

I like the retreat of the heat and humidity that help to define our summers. I like the small swatch of shades, transforming the distant stand of maple trees into a vivid canvas of gold and russet. I really, really, really like that Honey Crisp apples are in season.

I do not like dealing with what comes next.

Winter is not my favorite season — overall, it comes in at (almost) a close fourth place. The paradox in that statement is that the first half of winter is, by far, my favorite time of year. I really like the first snowfall, as the clean, blanket of white hides fall’s naked disrobing. I really, really like the entire holiday season, as people find more reasons to smile, gather together and eat huge meals.

I really, really, really like cranking up my Snowchucker 6000 and blasting the first snowfall from my driveway — even though it is only three quarters of an inch in accumulation.

However, after the holidays have come and gone, I am more than ready to wash my hands of all that winter stuff. I do not like temperatures described with the phrase “below zero” just as much as I don’t like any weather description that starts with the phrase “lake effect.”

I do not like dead batteries on frigid mornings. I do not like going to work and coming home in the dark — punctuated by three hours of gray skies. I do not like numb fingertips and toes, accompanied by icicles hanging from my beard and moustache. I really and absolutely do not like phone calls from friends that live in the South, eager to share how warm it is at their place — and then asking, “What’s it like up your way?”

When I become king (I recently submitted my application — I’m just waiting to hear back), we will still enjoy our four seasons, but they will be reclassified as spring, summer, fall, and big winter party — with big winter party ending on Jan. 17 (my birthday). The following day (Jan. 18.) will be designated as the first day of spring. Crocuses will leap forth from the warming soil, tree canopies will fill with budding leaves, and lawns will be treated with crabgrass killer.

As I arrive at this point in my writing, I have finished my second cup of coffee and considering pouring myself a third, the haze over the water has lifted and my attitude has been properly adjusted, but those gahldurn maple trees are still turning red.

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.