Autumn

It is the best of times, and the worst of times.

Autumn in Arizona. The leaves and the temperatures fall. People breathe their annual, deep, collective sigh of relief. The first winter clothes emerge from lower drawers and backs of closets. Pumpkin patch mazes are taking shape. The smoke of fireplaces drifts on the evening air.

But, then … it’s too hot to wear a jacket, and too cold to go without one. School is in session and the streets are overcrowded again. And our dog, Archie, wants out.

And in. And out. And in. And out. For him, the great outdoors is finally, finally just right for adventure. He’s never known Arizona in anything but summer. He’d begun to think he was living on the surface of the sun. Now, at last, nothing stands between him and carefreedom but a rattley screen and a smudged glass door.

And so comes our autumn exercise regimen. Feet up in the rocker, nestled deep in the couch, or engrossed in a late work project back in the den … we are constantly, summarily summoned to the back door, to open it. Close it. Go back to what we were doing – nope, there he is again. Back to the door. Open. Close. Sit down – no, no, up and at ‘em. Or else listen to the sound of him body-slamming the screen, tap-dancing on the glass, whining, moaning, growling, howling.

It gets old. Letting Archie in and out tends to double the amount of time required to do anything else, and leads to a lot of re-reading the same interrupted paragraphs and rewinding the same interrupted movie scenes and re-calculating where we were with the recipe or the checkbook or the conversation in the bedroom.

A few afternoons ago, we’d had enough. He paced at the back door again, frantic to get out. As he had been every three minutes for the last half hour. My beloved and I, both online and enmeshed in work, were taking turns dropping everything to come over and do doorman duty.

No more. “Archie!” we cried, nearly in unison, from our far corners of the house. “Stop.” “STAY!” “STAY!” “NO!” “ARCHIE.” “LEAVE it!”

Deafness was upon him. Obliviousness. No room in his feverish mind for anything but the frantic scratching. Screeches. Pleas. Whimpers. Usually, this means he’s spied a loose piece of paper, tossed by the breeze, or a toy-of-the-moment left behind out there. Sometimes, he just sees a fly.

We converged from our respective distances, scolding as we came. He glanced at us, eyes incredibly wide, between fearsome glares and furious imprecations at the yard.

More scolding. We were presenting a united front — very important in parenting.

“ARCHIE! NO! NO!”

He looked about to crawl out of his own skin.

Finally, supremely irritated but in perfect sync, we turned our heads and glanced out through the glass to see …

… about 2,567 pigeons, gorging on our newly seeded backyard.

The door slid back. Archie took the length of the porch in a single bound. The sky actually darkened as pigeons lift in cooing unison to the nearest housetops.

A moment later, he came trotting happily back — authority established, power flexed, reputation restored.

* * * * *

It is, to look at the news, the worst of times. I get so tired of the endless, thundering reports. Evil unleashed. Reality denied. Truth ignored. God despised.

I don’t want to hear it. If anything, I want to yell back at the radio and the TV and the computer screen. I want to eat some ice cream. I want to watch Andy Griffith.

But there are reasons for the growing commotion. Sometimes, it really is important to see what all the fuss is about. Sometimes, it’s about very important things. Not everyone pounding me with news and opinion doesn’t know what they’re talking about.

Besides which – these are also the best of times. In tuning out everything, I tune out the wonderful good with the bad. I silence not only the worst, but the best.

For not everyone is afraid.

Not everyone has surrendered their faith.

Not everyone has lost the path through the dark, dark woods.

I’m so busy. I’m so comfortable. I want so much to be left alone.

But it’s autumn. Getting cold out there, yes … and the long, dark nights are coming. But the good Lord, who knows our seasons, is raising up some brave souls. And clear voices.

There’s adventure, and a nip, in the air. Some evenings, even a smoky trace of hope.

Open the door.