Wake Up When September Ends

Out the door and down the two burnt red-orange tiled steps, quietly across the driveway with the corner crack that always has a yellow dandelion growing out of it and onto the long, narrow, and dwindling sidewalk. The dawn having yet to break, I can hear the soft "coos" of doves sitting on the wires above.

Step after step, feeling the crunching sounds of gravel on the uneven concrete, covered with crisp, colorful, September leaves lying on the ground as I walk the 1.5 mile trek to school.

The fall mornings are cool and crisp. I can feel the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up, as a brisk, yet refreshing breeze blows in my direction. Each slender blade of grass is holding onto its early morning dew drops. Every leaf has wakened up to mother nature's call of change. As I breathe in the fresh air, the smells of summer have gone and in its place are the scents of autumn.

Step after step, the soft delicate rays of the sun begin to barely peak through the hilltops greeting me. As the warmth of the sun hit my face, I was reminded of the hot & humid summer days now past.

Across the freshly painted, white crosswalk, passing by my old elementary school, seeing the windows of what were my 3rd, 4th and 5th grade stomping grounds, I drag my hand over the new wired black fence.

Step after step, passing by house after house, some small and some large, all differently laid out and designed. No two properties alike. Some had copious acres of land and some had notoriously large homes sitting atop a hill overlooking the valley below. I figured their views were stunning, especially in the morning during sunrise.

The sidewalk curves and then as it straightens it is lined with four young maple saplings, wonderfully landscaped at its base, and tastefully planted to accentuate, what I assume, is their property line. It delights me to see their bright and vibrant red leaves happily swaying in the air. Approaching the top of the largest hill, I get excited to reach the bottom.

Step after step, from the summit down to the valley, I can hear the rushing sounds of the Rogue River nearby. I recall all the time spent kayaking, paddle-boarding and tubing down the river all summer long with my friends.

At the bottom of the hill is an old sage-green house occupied by its hundreds of little residents which I called the ‘kiwwy house’. Cats of all shapes, sizes and colors skirted, dashed, sat and observed me from every angle imaginable. My favorite is a silky, black cat I had named Emerald, due to her piercing dark green eyes resembling that of Colombian emeralds.

Step after step, I continue walking down the sidewalk that parallels the hoard, of exuberantly tall pine trees enveloped in red pine needles at the base of their trunks.

Slowly the hazy lines of short buildings appear on the horizon. The view of the small, old, picturesque town that I call home sits below as I pounder on. A quaint town, with its small shops that I frequented often during the summer had over 100 years worth of history.

Step after step, I wonder what 100 years ago was like in this tiny town? Who walked down the hill and into the valley? I recall the 1-room red school house, now an old historic relic, sitting outside the front of my middle school as I head in that direction.

With every step I take I get closer to the enormous dam that funnels the river. I let myself engulf in its sounds, standing and taking a momentary pause at the rails. Feeling the pleasant water spraying my skin on my arms I continue forward. It was a long walk. Just put one foot in front of the other.