DEAD THINGS EVERYWHERE

 I see dead things . . .

Of course I do. Tis the season, after all. Boney hands and bodies reaching up through the ground. Skeletons as tall as a house and as small as a mouse. The best I’ve seen, by the way, is a yard in Cannon Beach where a large skeleton has his hands raised, controlling an army of small skeletons climbing the fence and ready to take over the otherwise sleepy beach town. And in a nearby neighborhood in my town, the Pirates of Pinehurst have already taken over the seven seas and a seven-block radius. Well, almost. There is still pillaging to be done. Arrrgh!

But I’m not talking about the burgeoning Halloween decoration craze when I say I see dead things. I’m talking about the orange and yellow, rust and red, intact and mangled, crunchy and soft, free and fluttering . . . leaves. Yes, they’re beautiful! But they’re dead. And they’re everywhere. Especially after this blustery day is over, and the forecasted nasty weekend. The fabulous fall foliage on our maples, oaks, and birches will soon be detached corpses littering our yards, covering our streets, and choking our gutters.

While the previous might sound a touch macabre, I do have a positive word of encouragement on this dark and gloomy western Oregon Friday. It’s a simple thought, really, which is my normal fare, especially when walking the sidewalks of Sherwood. I was struck by the reality that leaves are at their most spectacular as they are dying. They don’t turn black, like all the giant spiders crawling around people’s walls and yards. Why can’t they all be dead. The world would be a much better place. I know. I know.

The question is, are we becoming more spectacular as we continue to die? We are, ya know. Dying that is. I think after about age 25 we start losing brain cells every day. Even if we use them, we still lose them. And this is encouraging? Some of us have follicles falling off our heads like foliage in a fall windstorm. But, again, as our arteries are hardening, are our hearts as well? Are we one day closer to the grumpy old guy in the creepy house at the end of our street? Or the rude old lady taking the last gourd out of the produce bin just as we were reaching for it? Or the angry commuter to downtown Portland honking and gesturing his way through the Terwilliger Curves? Never mind, that was me.

My wife Stacie and I have made a pact that we will get sweeter with age and not more sour. I put the word more in there on purpose, because we have our days. But seriously, are we setting our hearts and minds like flint as we stare down the street at the reality that awaits us all, resolute to age like a fine . . . leaf?

Here’s to orange, yellow, red, and soft in our final days. And to dead spiders everywhere.

JAY