Yevet Tenney

I’m never quite prepared for the first frost. Everything is green and wonderful one day, and the next day it is brown and wilting. I often think of the pioneers during this season of the year and say a little prayer of thanks that I live today and not a hundred years ago.

Once again, the gold, scarlet and orange leaves flutter to the ground leaving the trees stark and bare against the blue sky. The dates on the calendar fly as quickly as the hour changes on a digital clock.

I was no stranger to terror when I was a child. I remember shivering in my bed watching the curtains billow into the room under the breath of the night wind.

Many years ago, I traveled to Chicago. I had been living in a city where the traffic was routed away from the residential area and the noise level was the occasional dull roar of passing cars and the laughter of children playing along the streets.

Recently, the White Mountains in Arizona were in a severe drought. The grass had long since turned brown, and the trees were losing their drooping leaves, even though they were watered by the garden hose almost daily.

The sultry August day my grandfather passed away, I walked up the path under the willow trees. I noticed the group gathered around my grandfather’s lawn chair. I knew he was there. Tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t join the group.