The days run away like wild horses over the hills.  I am reminded of this Bukowski line on temperate, late September days like this one, the first frost close on their heels.  It's now fall, the summer-that-never-was is officially behind us, and a cold, dark time ahead.  Many people claim that fall is their favorite season and they can attest to its virtues: nature's brilliant display of color, cooler weather, the slackening of pace following the frenzied days of summer, hot tea on the porch on a crisp afternoon, Monday Night Football.  As for myself, I have to say at the risk of seeming maudlin, fall makes me downright melancholy.  The light fails earlier by the day (and then we just kill the afternoon entirely when our clocks "fall back" with Daylight Savings Time, ushering in night at 5pm); the nocturnal cricket orchestra dies away, section by section; my tomatoes wither; and the trees begin to take on that gloomy "bare ruined choir" look.  Rather than kvetch endlessly about it, I have made a list to prop up my spirit.  I call it:

HOW TO EMBRACE THE FALL

Remember: It's not you that's falling, it's just the name of the season.
Eat oysters.

Catch the double-bill of Air Supply and Christopher Cross at the
Mid-Hudson Civic Center on December 4.

Bake your own bread.

Rake leaves in a humungous pile and leap in.  Repeat until happily exhausted or bruised at the hip.

Take notice of the afternoon light - the increasing velocity of its gauzy-muzzled retreat over the rooftops of Kingston.

Vote, but educate yourself about the local candidates first so you don't end up just
witlessly flipping the levers down the line for the Democrats.

Plan a boycott of winter.

Record the oral history of your parents that you've been putting off year after year.

Don't let a day pass in anger, frustration, or regret.

Discover opera.

Plant bulbs for spring - they'll be a good deed that rests in the ground and
in your mind all winter long.

Buy art.

Give away the old sweaters that make you look lumpy or misshapen and
find a new one that you can live in.

Refuse to think about Christmas until after Thanksgiving.

Surprise yourself.

Wear wooly things.

Grab whatever you didn't sell on Memorial Day and Labor Day and stick it on the lawn again for a last-ditch Columbus Day sale.  Whatever doesn't move, leave on the lawn until the spring and call it a site-specific art installation that explores the plastic qualities of concepts like Home, Art, and Garbage.

Grow a beard.

Become an expert on something - gout, thermodynamics, Bergman films, the history of pole vaulting.

Keep a journal - you'll fascinate yourself (and your heirs) in years to come with the most banal details of your life, like what you had for lunch on October 23, 2004, or how you switched brands of toothpaste in a giddy moment at the drug store.

Take a hike.

Brush up on your Shakespeare.

Carve the face of an ex-president - Chester A. Arthur?  Rutherford B. Hayes?  - into a pumpkin.  (Toss the seeds with oil, salt, cumin, and cayenne.  Bake at 350°F for 30 to 45 minutes,
shaking occasionally, until they are tan and crisp.)

Write a sonnet.

Sleep with the windows open for as long as you (and Lee Anne) can bear it.
- Brian K. Mahoney