“I love the autumn—that melancholy season that suits memories so well. When the trees have lost their leaves, when the sky at sunset still preserves the russet hue that fills with gold the withered grass, it is sweet to watch the final fading of the fires that until recently burnt within you.”
― Gustave Flaubert
10.30.23
Getting a bit of a late start today, or at least later than planned. Peg left on-time at 6:05, I curled up to read the paper on my tablet, and the next thing I knew it was pushing 8 o'clock.
I can't recall the last time I had the luxury of giving in to the urge to rest that flows from the air and the light of this place in the autumn.
Last Saturday it sounded like rain, with all of the leaves dropping in the woods that surround us. That sound was replaced by actual rain in the predawn hours on Sunday, and it's still raining now. Outside the air is chilly and damp but not truly cold; sweater weather for a pair of Southerners. I saw a local walking around in shorts this weekend because that's just how they roll up here.
We managed to leave PC earlier than planned on Friday, but it was still a late start and a long ride to our gas stop in Roanoke, Virginia. The cats had pooped in their carrier already for the first time as we descended into the valley on a clear night, and told approach we had the field in sight. They cleared up to set up a left base leg for a visual approach to Runway 24. Then the runway disappeared behind a knoll between us and the tarmac.
A hill at night looks like a void among the lights of the city around it. The presence is unnerving, and I leveled off as P and I started looking for approach lights. Finally, less than two miles from the runway, P pointed and asked, "Is that it?"
Indeed it was, but now we're way, way too high for a normal landing. What to do?
I think my solution unnerved Peg a little. I deployed flaps and the speed brake, pulled the throttle to idle and began a rapid descent in the darkness.
"Descent rate. Pull up. Pull up." Bitchin' Betty, a safety feature of the TCAS, didn't much like my decision, with the runway racing up to meet us, speed well above normal for an approach. I managed to get below 117 knots and dropped the last detent of flaps. The Columbia ballooned, and I pushed harder to keep the descent coming. We crossed the numbers still a couple hundred feet in the air, but the runway was fairly long so there was room to correct. Finally about halfway down the runway we touched down, still a little fast but smooth as silk, and rolled off at the last taxiway like nothing happened.
The second leg was far less memorable. We landed at five after eleven, way past my bedtime, and rolled into the closed FBO. I'd called ahead to make sure the airport manager sent someone to open the gate so we could get to the car, but it seemed that message had been lost. I turned the plane's batteries back on so I could radio the tower to please have someone come let us out. Finally, after maybe ten minutes of unwelcome waiting, a nice young man appeared and buzzed us out to the car.
So it was after 11:30 when we pulled into the drive, freed the cats from their excrement streaked prison, and schlepped bags down the path to Tara. Dio's been up here for over a month, catching mail and helping us get the new condo on Canandaigua Lake up and running. He came downstairs and joined us for a nightcap, my nerves still surging with adrenaline despite the late hour, and finally we rolled into bed at 1 or so.
The bad news about getting old--well, let's be honest, there's lots of bad news baked into the experience--is that sleeping late becomes more of a challenge (this particular morning excepted). So P and I started stirring at 5:30 or so, and went to Wegman's when it first opened to stock up on whatever groceries we'd need to get through the weekend. Wegman's is a delight, Publix on steroids. We always spend too much, an artifact of the days when I'd go to the grocery store with my father, whose response to growing up in scarcity on a farm in Mississippi was always to buy whatever he or his kids thought looked delicious on the shelves. It used to drive my mother batty.
After a gourmet brunch prepared by P and a couple cups of coffee from our wonderful espresso machine, we piled into the MB and the three of us drove up to the new condo so Peg and Dio could go over his proposed renovation plans.
The leaves, those that haven't already dropped, have faded now into a few shades of brown rather than the brilliant reds and oranges of a few weeks ago, which we missed, but it's all still beautiful.
When we walked into the condo, the place we'll likely spend the last of our senescence, the views were as breathtaking as I'd remembered.
Yes, this is going to do nicely, thanks.
Afterward we drove up to the Lake House in the town of Canandaigua, a toney hotel where we've stopped in the past for a toddy at their oddly named lakefront bar, the Sand Bar. There are no sand bars in the Finger Lakes, so we conjectured that the name was probably the result of some focus group assembled by a marketing firm.
We started our little happy hour out around the fire pit . . .
but soon the cool air off the hills above the lake drove us inside, where I groused about the fact that their three TV screens of football didn't include the Dawgs and the Gators. There are downsides to spending time up here. Don't they know the significance of the World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party? No, no they don't.
As it was getting dark we made our way back down to Corning, thinking we'd take in the last of the Days of Incandescence festival downtown. Unfortunately we arrived there around 8:30, and the party ended at eight. These are not party people up here. Only mischief happens after a certain hour on the weekends, and they're not much into mischief.
Sunday as the rain began to fall, our plans fizzled out and a day of rest unfolded. I started a brisket on the Traeger. Peg, still in PJs at one in the afternoon, curled up on the couch and fell asleep. I curled up next to her, read my Mitt Romney memoir on the tablet, and was soon in the Land of Nod myself. Later Dio wanted to go over lamps and bathroom fixtures and such, so he and P moved into the kitchen to debate the merits of pewter over copper, knowing my eyes glaze over at the topic, while I turned on a boring, rain-soaked contest between the Giants and the Jets (you take what you can get up here), ate green chile dip and faded in and out of slumber. At some point we built a fire, and after Dio left to drive to the condo so he could greet the contractor bright and early this morning, we tuned in to a scary movie (Sleepy Hollow with Johnny Depp, a far gorier affair than we'd expected). Then we dialed up the most recent SNL on the tablet, curled up in bed, and were snoring blissfully by 9:20.
Clearly, we needed the rest this environment beckons with its slate grey skies, falling leaves, and insipid daylight that adumbrates days ahead of real cold. I bet my blood pressure has dropped a dozen points since we arrived back here.
Time to get ready for a mediation in a few minutes. This is an odd one, in that the lawyer on the other side and I haven't talked at all since I pantsed him at a summary judgment hearing a few months back, and I think he's going to be surprised at the damages numbers we're suggesting. Part of me thinks that may make for a short mediation, but one never knows.
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