That Season Called Fall and 'When The Frost Is On'......

So....once again I find myself crossing the threshold to fall of another year. Never has been my favorite time of the year even though I was born in the midst of the season and find many of its accompanying traits desirable. I am always reminded of one of my favorite poems, "When The Frost Is On The Pumpkin!" You know it goes like this -- maybe you didn't know--

"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN"


When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kind o' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here --
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin', and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock --
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries -- kind o' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The straw-stack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below -- the clover over-head, --
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
I don't know how to tell it -- but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me --
I'd want to 'commodate 'em -- all the whole-indurin' flock --
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

By James Whitcomb Riley

SO if I love poems such as this so much, why is it that I don't always enjoy Fall as much. Could have something to do with these allergies to grass and ragweed that make me itch from head to toe for a while. Naw, I don't really believe that is it! I think it is probably because I detest Winter so much and I know it is in the wings and cannot let myself live in the moment. Isn't that stupid; but that is the way I rock.
I guess the best way I can handle this whole situation is to enjoy each moment and to remember that joy cometh in the morning! Er,...or is that joy cometh beyond the season of 'ole man Winter!