The Dread Chrysanthemum

"These are the times that try men's souls . . . "

We have reached the middle of August, and now when I approach McCaffrey's Supermarket, I do so with a certain amount of dread and a desire to avert my eyes from the horror I might encounter in the garden department which surrounds the access to the entrance.

At some point, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, too soon, the waning perennials and annuals they have out for sale will be replaced by - say it ain't so, Sam! - (shudder!) Chrysanthemums, those evil, sloppy, puffy harbingers of Autumn, feared only because it is itself the harbinger of - dare I write the word? - Winter!  There, I said it - and wrote it.  Winter, Winter, Winter - season of cold, darkness, doom, and despair.

When I see my first chrysanthemums of the season, a chill breeze seems blow past me and I realize the ephemeral nature of life.  No matter how much I try to enjoy winter . . . (and I did, quite, this last go-round, which had tons of snow and most people hated, but to me was at least more what winter was when I was growing up, instead of just the cold and darkness and no sparkling snow and ice crystals to gladden the esthetic soul) as I say, no matter how much I try to enjoy winter, I feel an instinctive drooping of my spirits when reminded of its imminent advent.

Maybe I will enjoy it even more this year, though, with the growing of my spiritual pursuits.  From my mouth to G-d's ears, as my mother, the atheist, would always say.

So far, no chrysanthemums, but I know my luck can't hold out, and I grow increasingly anxious each time I drive to McC's for sustenance.  I fear that first shock when I see those muddy colors - the mustard, the rust, the brown, the dirty orange. 

Unfortunately, I am unaware of any measure which will prevent the chrysanthemum's appearance, unlike the similarly unwelcome vampire, who may be put off by garlic, flourished crucifixes, or a threatening pointed wooden stake, so with resignation I invite them in:  I seek out the purest yellow mum, and cart it off to my front steps, where it squats, slowly deflating, until autumn is well upon us.