Sinatra sang poignantly about “Autumn in New York”. Here in the country our autumn song would have different lyrics, a different mood.

The colors have begun transforming the tree lines at the edge of the farm. But it is a tardy harbinger. The first hard frost that came in early October, the ensuing ones that coated the landscape with a white sheen, and the long stretch of cool mornings and afternoons had already signaled us that the warm weather season had ended here in southern Michigan.

I still had about 12 acres of third cutting hay I’d planned to mow and bale. Each day of rain or below 60-degree temperatures pushed that intent further from reality. While weather has not been a friendly companion for “we” alfalfa peddlers, I read that conditions were nearly perfect this year for the apple growers on the west side of the state. “A Record Crop” the headline noted. Still, nothing’s ever perfect in agriculture. The packers, the news story noted, are having trouble keeping up with the surplus and some of the remaining apples may end up on the ground, left there to rot. Too much of a good thing.

Years ago, interviewing the late Doc Eggleston, a veterinarian, I asked him how he kept busy during his retirement. “What do you do?” I inquired. “Do!” he exclaimed. “I own a 100-acre farm. There’s always something to do.”

Mine is a mere 68 acres, but I now know what he meant. Winter’s once more breathing down our necks and there’s so much that ought to be done before the snow puts a halt to our ambitions. Upkeep, I’ve learned, is a never-ending task.

Summoning up the will to act, though, is proving to be the difficult part. Our pet cat and dog have both managed to get  up there in years and, I notice, spend a good deal of time napping. I, too, have advanced an ample portion along life’s byway (the journey being the metaphor we often use to describe the trajectory from birth to demise) and find that I drift off to sleep earlier in the evening, yet no longer arise by choice at an appropriate hour when morning arrives. “Sleeping in”, once  a great passion of my teenaged years, and one seldom allowed by my family elders, has now slipped more and more into the routine.

Here in the autumn of my own life I still harbor much hope of numerous accomplishments. The list of activities charted out for the day ahead, for the coming week, and for the near future is still long and detailed. But energy wanes in the late afternoon, procrastination rests upon the shoulder like a miniature devil whispering “Put if off”, and not all of those listed items get checked off.

Autumn, more than any other season, reminds us that our moments are finite and fleeting. The list may be long, but the days have gotten shorter.