Country Man called as he drove to work, detailing the beautiful morning he was witnessing.
I sat my coffee down and headed outdoors, planting my derriere on the dew-spotted seat of the four-wheeler. These cool morning fogs do not last long, and I needed to make my way toward the small rolling hills quick, over the pasture and through the fields of beans and corn.
It was only me for miles to see, and I don’t think I could have been one ounce happier.
September is a treasured season of history.
September is the month when we began dating, after that football game that I didn’t pay attention to, will I ever? Nor did I pay attention to those old Levi’s, the “good jeans”, or the tattered t-shirt that was a friend to his back.
How did a once superficial girl not notice this “What Not To Wear” blasphemer?
September is the month when we spend countless hours sitting in his pickup, watching the deer and sharing our one good spotting scope; old dog in that back where he likes it best.
September is the month when I see his face less, hear his buck encounters later in the evening.
September is the month when I go through the steps to site in my rifle; how to shoot that longbow. And each time I get mad because I don’t like being bossed and he shouldn’t boss a woman with a gun anyway. He never seems worried, for some reason…
September is the month where, for a little while, South Dakota seems to be her nicest…
before The Winter comes to test our faithfulness.
September is the month when the season turns to gold, and I fall in love all over again.
A deliberate love that floods the heart, it almost hurts…
…and carries me through the wild season of icy solitaire to come.