The days have been getting cooler, and driving home, I see the first hint of color. The skies have changed, too, there is different feel to the clouds, a quickening that one doesn't see in the summer. This is my time of year, and as the days shorten and the fragrance of apples and pumpkin complement the whisper of leaves, I hear Melville...
"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can."
When I first read this opening from Melville's Moby Dick, many years ago, I remember it resonating with me. No, autumn doesn't make me crabby, but it does tend to push me toward the sea, or it rather it fills me with a sense of wanderlust. When the wind blows and the temperatures drop, I have an urge to strike out cross country, or just to move for the sake of moving. It's a primitive calling.
