I find myself a bit melancholy, as the Summer wains in West Tennessee and the colorful Fall Season has set upon us with cool breezy nights and pleasant day temperatures. As I write, I can hear the Cotton Gin echoing a familar hum accross the town telling its residents harvest time has arrived in small town America. My husband says it's the sound of money. If the farmers have a good harvest they can buy new cars, new clothes and patronize local restrauants. The whole county benefits. I just think how much I love a great pair of blue jeans or the feel of a favorite cotton blouse.
I am thinking of how much I love this town and its people. What I cherish the most is its imperfections. I've never been one to like perfect people, homes, places or things. If a building is perfectly manicured with clean lines and spotless paint, I feel it lacks character and history, which is boring and frankly there is just something unnatural about the appearance of perfection. Observe an older building and I pause and wonder of its history and the people that dwelled within its walls. This can be said too of people.
I have digressed a bit so I will turn back to my original thoughts of being downhearted. Why am I so melancholy as the busy Fall season approaches? My beautiful, strong, independent Mother-In-Law had a stroke on September 17th. By stroke standards it was a small one but, it is always difficult to see a loved-one struggle. We remain hopeful for a full recovery as she fights, in rehab, to regain her mobility. Sometimes hope is all we have so we cling to it like bees to honey, enduring the sting and looking forward to tasting sweet victory.
Her stoke has reminded me that all things and people must change over time. I just don't want this town to change, neither its imperfect people, that I love, nor its imperfect buildings which I've grown to appreciate. So I will sit here awhile and ponder the changing season and the ever-changing life around me. Soon I will find a comfortable place where I can delight in the present gifts from God, rejoice in victories as they come, grieve for losses and always be amazed at this thing called life. Until I find that comfortable place, I will listen to the hum of the cotton gin and allow it to lull me into a more peaceful state of mind.
