From one of the greatest, Frank Sinatra--September Song. I try not to think about the sadness of the tune and words:
"The days get short when you reach September".

It's the time of year that gets me down. Summer's coming to an end. The day light hours do shorten. The air is cooler. I added an extra blanket to my bed last night. The leaves begin turning. The vegetables stop growing. Fortunately, autumn stretches out for a long time. That eases the transition into winter.

Of course, the true meaning of Frank's song is that he's singing about the September of his years. That's true of me, also. At age 65, I'm there. I don't feel it, and I try to ignore it, but the mind and body can't deny the reality of it.

I'm still a young man at heart, doing foolish things I shouldn't. Yesterday, I walked 18 holes of golf (+5 mi). Then I cut fire wood for two hours (and got stung in the neck by a honey bee. Lucky I didn't get swarmed, as I was cutting near a hive in a hollow log.) After I did a few yard chores, I finally sat down for a glass of wine. Before I knew it, I was out like a light. Now that should tell me something. Oh yes, my dog bitten leg hurt like hell.

I need some severe reprimands. I'm too stupid to know when to quit--to accept my limits. It's September, Randy. Slow down or you'll never even see December! Gotta run--logs need splitting.