In my elementary school days during the 1960’s, we had regular disaster drills. The alarm would sound and we were instructed to go out into the hallway and crouch on our knees with our heads under the concrete coat racks that were built solidly into the wall. I had no idea what the purpose of these drills was - as far as I was concerned, it could have been nothing more than a physical exercise. I was only six or seven, and if my teacher tried to explain that the exercise was a feeble attempt to protect us against the fallout of a nuclear attack by the Russians -well, none of that made any impact on me. 

Which is just as well, because if I had understood that some other country might drop a bomb big enough to destroy everything and everyone I knew and loved, I would have been scared shitless and scarred for life.

September was a glorious month here in southeastern Michigan. Practically every morning we work to crystal clear blue skies, bright sunshine, and perfect temperatures in the mid-70’s. Usually by mid-September, the garden annuals look spiny and yellow, but my impatiens are still bright, growing, and blooming furiously. I haven’t had the heart to pull them up, even though I’ve interspersed bright yellow and orange mums in the garden for bits of fall color.

But Tuesday afternoon the sky turned the color of a WWII battleship, and rain pelted our deck. The wind chimes were a virtual symphony of sound. The winds of change were blowing. Fall was coming in.

Time was that when I called my mother on the telephone it took several attempts to get through because her phone was always busy. She was forever talking to someone  - either my aunt or one of my cousins, or most likely, one of her many “lady friends” who lived in the neighborhood. 

But I can’t remember the last time I got that annoying buzz of the busy signal when I placed a call to her phone number. And it isn’t because she has call waiting or that her phone goes directly to voice mail.