We've had a few days of drizzle and clouds, and managed to receive about an inch of much-needed rain over a span of four days. It hasn't been good weather for riding motorcycles or horses.
Saturday, though, was beautiful. My sister was here; I always like to have her out before she leaves for her winter stay in Texas. While she and my daughter and I were having an after-dinner chat, my Internet friend Boo stopped by with her husband, her sister, and her sister's husband. They'd been east of here, buying apples.
After everyone had gone home, I went for a ride on Blue, knowing that the next few days had lots of rain in the forecast. What is it about autumn that puts an extra spring in the step of a horse?
It rained Sunday and Monday. Today dawned cloudy, but the weather guessers promised the sun would peep through before the day was over. Then, back to rain tomorrow, they said.
While we were taking our walk, I commented on how warm it was, in spite of the clouds.
"Yep," Cliff replied. "I think this would be a good time to take a little motorcycle ride."
The sun really hasn't showed itself much today, as it turned out; but we managed to have pleasant ride around the countryside on back roads, before Cliff had to come home and get ready for work.
"We stole another one," I told him.
Because you know, this time of year you're never certain when it will be a fit day for riding again. So we grab every chance, and feel we stole one more, one to which we really weren't entitled. It's the same with riding my horse.
Deep into December and January, there is even more of that sense of "stealing" a day or a few hours, if it's fit weather to ride.
It occurred to me that, at our age, every moment of pleasure is stolen, in a sense.
My knees protest if I ride too long, or take too long a walk; but they still work. The day will come, if I live long enough, when I won't be able to ride a horse; and Cliff won't always have enough strength to handle an 800-pound motorcycle. We're sixty-one and sixty-two. I have known people my age to have strokes that stopped them in their tracks. And some younger than I who have died of sudden heart attacks.
So I feel, in the autumn of our lives, that every ride, every vacation, every walk in the pasture, is stolen. It's one more memory tucked away, one we didn't let slip by... one we sneaked in.
May I suggest to my readers that you steal a day, or at least an hour or two, first chance you get? Think of something you'd normally not do in fall or winter: a picnic, perhaps, or a fishing trip, or camping out (if you like that sort of thing).
Maybe I should just ask you to do something "out-of-season". Like my friend Tooey (nickname for Shirley) who always celebrates Christmas in July. She sent me a card this year. In July.
And having done so, pat yourself on the back. This is one case where stealing is a good thing.