Autumnal Transitions

To misquote Oscar Wilde, summer has collapsed into autumn here in the Willamette Valley.  With the Autumnal Equinox, the unseasonably warm and bright days have been washed away, at least for now, by an atmospheric river.  The plants in the yard have gone from looking slightly withered to slightly faded but somehow more lush.  The yellow grass is poised to regain its Pacific Northwest winter verdancy.  The garden gate swings easily now that the clay in the ground has been watered and whatever shrinkage causing misaligned sidewalk and fence post has been undone.  And we've had bewilderingly dim days, as if the equinox acted like a wall-outlet timer switch that tripped and turned off the sun.

On the last day of summer, The Child went off to college. We've all been fairly laid back about it.  I asked him if we could take pictures of him moving into his dorm room for social media, complete with me, hand at my brow, clutching his knees, and wailing while the two of us were surrounded by moving boxes and laundry, but he declined.  We did have some moments on Move-In Day where I would wobbly sing "Please Don't Take My Sunshine Away," and we would both theatrically break down into fake boo-hoo-hoos. But then we'd both start snickering.  

It's not like we haven't been practicing for the last six months for this moment; he's spent a lot of time in the high school theatre rehearsing for shows or hanging out with his friends, so we really weren't seeing him much except for an hour before work and school or for a moment when he would come home for the night.   During the summer, we saw him even less, and it wasn't unusual for Mark and me to be in bed for the night before he'd come home.

Even though he was essentially only sleeping here these last few months, the first twenty-four hours after he was gone, the energy of the house shifted.  Now that he's gone his computer (and fan) are turned off, as is his air conditioner, which can account for some of the shift. But our small house isn't very sound-proof, and The Child is a dynamic person. I am pretty sure I was partially waking whenever he would come home, or get up in the middle of the night to eat the last of the pizza, or when he would thrash in his sleep and knock against whatever.  

Mark and I are not sure what the dog thinks of this.  She would trot to the front door to meet him whenever he came home. Mark thought she would be looking for him, but I haven't noticed her wandering in and out of his room or perching on the back of the davenport, forlornly sighing in a reenactment of Odysseus' faithfully waiting dog.  Although she does seem more clingy.  The cats seem to be more affected by the season's change.

At odd moments the last few days I've been struck by the weirdness of the shift.  I'm reminded of the time long ago when I had returned to Oregon and was crashing at my folks' house.  My mom said to me, "John, when you were in Minnesota and Arizona, I really didn't worry about you.  But now that you're here, I want you to know that I really don't get to sleep until I hear you pull into the driveway." Mark and I are going through something similar, but for us it's in reverse and it's a freeing up of cognitive focus.

We—or rather Mark—scoured out his room, which revealed the accumulated wear of the last fifteen years.  Most of the furnishings have stayed, and the plan is to turn The Child's room into a guest room / office.  We'll see how this works out.  Considering that Fall Term only lasts eleven weeks and he'll be back for about four weeks over the Winter Solstice, the changes we're making feel a little temporary.  

I expect on that December day when she first sees him, the dog will charge at him, barking and growling as if he were an Evil Trespasser bent on perfidy, but a split second before she's about to eat him and save us from Certain Peril and Property Damage, she'll recognize him and beg for belly rubs.