Oh how I love this time of year.

Crispness paddles out slowly in mid to late August, riding the waves of air in during early September.

A lone, deep rusty read leaf peaks out from inside the green canopy of the dogwood.

Black-eyed Susans seem to roam the grounds like high school cliques (still not able to make ‘fetch’ happen).

The hydrangea panicles that emerged a tantalizing green in spring, transforming to creamy white in summer, are now just beginning to don hints of the dusty pinks and tans that will take them into wintertime.

The tall grasses seed heads’ are open and swaying in the breezes, the sky leans toward ‘bluebird’ more days than not, and so many apples have fallen to the ground from the old apple trees by the driveway that I am in no need of apple cider scented candles to remind me of the season’s bonus scents.

And I’ve been thinking…

If it is true that women turn into their mothers…

Then is it also true that men turn into their fathers?

Yes.

The answer, I believe, is yes.

Take a trip back in time, will you, to a period I will forever wish were ‘now’, when the Old Yankee Man still walked stalked the planet.

The Old Yankee Man was many things, but one of them was not ‘neat’.

Generous almost to a fault, that man would share coffee with the countertop each time he poured some for himself.

No way a ham and cheese sandwich would be made without mustard left on the cutting board.

I could turn a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser black by walking around behind him and wiping down the door jambs he just had to touch every time he came from the garage… all the door jambs he passed through from the garage.

Three to his apartment.

Add another if he detoured to the basement first.

Another if he wandered into the kitchen to see what I was doing.

And, yes, he touched the door jamb when he came into a room, and when he left.

So he was, indeed, double trouble.

In his wake, the man could leave everything from engine grease smears to sticky drops of ginger ale and it was hard to actually fathom how –  just how – he was capable of making such a mess simply by being.

I loved him so.

I’m smiling now.

When he was here, on this planet with us, I wrote that I loved the Old Yankee Man even though I sometimes wanted to kill him.

Now I realize it is the same sentiment that is keeping the Nearly Perfect Husband… you know… alive.

Because some days he is also the Nearly Dead Husband.

Not often.

But at times…

Because here is the thing.

Yesterday, I wrote the first ten lines of this story. I suppose it could end up being nine lines or eleven lines for you, depending on what device you are reading it on… but from “Oh how I love this time of year” to “And I’ve been thinking…” – that’s what I wrote yesterday.

And the plan was to ride that ethereal, lyrical vibe, right into an at-once-light-and-yet-hopefully-profound observation on the crazy divisiveness of what feels like our everydays lately, and something about leaves falling and renewal in spring and maybe we can lean into that and…

Okay, I didn’t have it all flushed out (but it was very insightful and probably groundbreaking).

Except then I wanted a glass of water.

Fair, because I’d been writing for a few minutes and was, thus, parched.

So I went to the kitchen sink to rinse out my water glass in case there was any dust in it because dust happens, seemingly far more frequently, in this old house.

And JoHn – the Nearly Perfect One – met me at the sink.

Now.

Every time I go to the kitchen sink, I end up noticing that it is all wet around the faucet and spray thingie.

Like, all wet.

And it is often so wet that I wonder if the faucet is leaking, to the point where I have TAKEN. IT. APART.

It isn’t leaking.

JoHn swears he knows not to use the spray thingie to water the counter regularly – because I have told him that marble doesn’t need frequent watering – so that couldn’t be it.

It’s been a mystery for years.

Until… yesterday.

So I went to get my glass of water just as JoHn was coming in to wash his hands and, due to – my opinion – the backlash against chivalry, he cut in front of me and thrust his hands into the stream of water coming from the faucet (or it could have been him engaging in sketch comedy… equal odds).

And he began washing his hands. He squirted some soap from the squirty thingy and washed…

And splashed!

Oh. I cannot even do it justice with my typing fingers even though they are super experienced in describing things.

Okay I’ll try.

That man washed his hands with all the unbridled and vigor-osity of a duck taking a bath…

Michael-Flately-Lord-of-the-Dance’s legs…

A blender when it figures out I left the top off (again)…

You get the gist.

That man washed his hands, talking to me the entire time, as I watched water thwack into the backsplash, wall behind the backsplash… window above the backsplash…

Water was freaking everywhere!

Then I – who was watching the traveling water (which could have been a hint to said Nearly Perfect Dead Husband, as he could have just followed my eyes to what I was looking at while he yammered on and on)… where was I? Oh! Yeah, so I – who watched the water go everywhere – then watched my darling significant(ish) life partner turn the water off and take two steps over to grab the towel and dry… his hands.

Didn’t remember I was getting a drink of water.

Didn’t notice that he’d left enough water behind – drips had turned to streams by then – to begin turning our kitchen countertop into the next Grand Canyon.

And now…

Here I sit, having laughed JoHn out of the kitchen, wiped down the countertop behind the sink (and the wall… and window…). I’ve moved to my spot at the kitchen table, the Hownd is cozy at my feet.

The sun is streaming in…

The salt water is sparkling outside…

The occasional breeze releases a few leaves, here and there, into their annual, slow motion float n’ spin to the ground.

The verdict is in (The Hownd and I being today’s jurors):

Not a bad morning.

Not a bad morning at all.

Thanks for readin’.

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