Last weekend, under blue sky and 78 degrees, Shawn and I meandered through Menard's garden center, looking for the next application of lawn chemicals.
I showed him the bag I thought was right. "Late summer/fall," it said, "Fertilizer, weed killer and winterizer."
"No," he said, "that's for autumn."
"Yes," I said. "It's autumn."
He looked at me blankly. Apparently he had not noticed the pumpkins and mums surrounding us.
"It's the end of September," I told him. "It will be October before this time next week."
He wiped a glisten of sweat from his brow and deposited a bag of winterizing lawn chemicals into our cart.
The leaves on the trees are still green, but the farmers are starting to harvest the corn. The harvest is such a big deal here, a true marker of the rhythm of life. In fact, people don't even talk about autumn, or fall. It's "The Harvest." Huge combines take down the stalks across miles and miles of golden corn fields.
We don't live in New York anymore. Nor Minnesota.