Seasons in the sun

I am at this moment suffering from a horrible affliction. I don’t know if it was started by the idea that I was going to write this week’s editor’s note about the changing seasons or because I slowed but didn’t come to a complete halt for a stop sign this morning (thus earning myself some bad karma), but I’ve got that Terry Jacks song “Seasons in the Sun” stuck in my head. You know the one from 1974 or so, “We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun, but the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time.” (I was 12 in 1974, and we sang the song like this, “We had joy, we had fun, we had boogers on a bun, but the boogers we ate were just cold snot on a plate.)

Seems like that song came out about the same time as “Billy, don’t be a hero.” I’m not suggesting a direct correlation between the news of the world and the horrible, horrible song that’s playing in my head, but I did hear John Fogerty singing “Deja Vu (All Over Again),” and it was probably about the same time as I was coasting through that stop sign.

Funny, I was just going to write about the mad dash to get all of the produce out of the garden and into the freezer, and how I notice the quail are beginning to covey up. (For the non-hunters, quail gather together in flocks with the onset of winter; they spend the nights huddled for warmth, and some down-home meteorologists have told me that the earlier they covey up, the colder the winter is going to be.) Last night, I made spaghetti sauce with tomatoes, basil and onions we grew ourselves.

I guess as the garden turns brown and the birds begin to huddle, it means one cycle ends as another begins. Somehow, the world manages to keep turning.

Reason to vote No. 47: You should vote because when the majority of people don’t vote, an extremist minority could make the decisions for everyone. The strength of our republic depends on you.