I’ll say it again: My good gawd, people, I had this whole idea of what I wanted to write about this week and then, rawr, a brush fire breaks out just up the mountain from my dad’s. Combined with inferno, dry, triple-dig temps, and, lots of mental hoo-haw (does he need to evacuate? What does one put in a go-bag? I’m told clean underwear, toothbrush, important papers and insurance cards. How is it I don’t know this and don’t have one already prepared for us all? stuff like that). So it’s been a day. It actually still is a day, but I”m feeling like a writing distraction may be good.

There are just some things you can’t control. Weather is clearly one of those things. I’m a girl who has always enjoyed a nice big snowstorm that shuts things down and makes people stay inside. Great excuse to do daytime novel reading and drink hot beverages with marshmallows. But a fire event feels different. More angry. I know snowstorms can be quite gnarly and very damaging, yet there seems a muffled softness to them. Or maybe that’s just because when I’ve fallen on my butt in a snowstorm, it’s been a fairly pillowed landing unless it’s black ice, and then broken stuff happens. But fires are altogether different. They feel angry. Who’m I kidding, they are angry. So I look up into the hills above my dad’s house and all I can think of is crackling, burning madness, then I cross my fingers while also considering that go-bag situation and checking the fire-info website like a day trader (currently 5% contained, called the El Dorado fire, if anyone’s curious about its progress).

It’s not a stretch to say that as a college student, one of my reasons for relocating to the east coast from Southern California had a smidge to do with how much I love coats, hats, scarves, and boots. Things that scream seasons. Mostly fall. As discussed last week, the September issue of Vogue was my aspirational catalogue. I also got excited about what the fall season promised in the way of classes (new notebooks!!!!), then once school wasn’t a thing, new museum/theater/movie openings. I love myself a nice datebook where I could write down first, as a student, my whole schedule and what books I’d need and all that. Then, as a young-and-beyond adult, what shows to go see. (Obviously 2020 has blown that last bit out of the water no matter where one lives.) But looking back on the shift in wardrobe before I moved to the east coast for my closet, I can see that I was a stubborn puppy. I wanted to wear what I wanted to wear, so even though going to Cal State Long Beach where the temperature would probably be in the mid-eighties in September, I was still determined to slip on that plaid, mid-length jumper I’d gotten from who knows where. This was not an altogether comfortable sartorial choice, but as you can see from the college-pal photo below, I was determined. And I think also a little heated in that tartan skirt although I did seem to pair it with a white t-shirt, so there was some style/comfort sanity going on.

I think ultimately the season of fall still triggers my new-beginnings sensation. Everything is starting new, and when I was younger that posed questions about how my life would move one step closer to the person I dreamed of becoming. This is not altogether far off from the thoughts I still have. As I start my writing workshop this week, I can feel the possibilities tickling at my brain. At some point (maybe?) the heat will drop below three digits, although fire season is now a year-round reality. I’m never not aware these days of the actual boots-on-ground events happening that demand attention: Yes, we’re having more explosive weather events because of climate change. We know this because science says so — for those who have doubt,s here is a peer-reviewed article to bring it home. Yes, there is an actual real problem with racism in this country and Black people are being shot by law enforcement with no end in site. Again, we know this because actual statistics show us so, and, no, there is not a media conspiracy unless you’re so stubborn you just can’t face the facts. Here, a non-partisan study bringing home some truths. And, of course, there is an election on the near horizon that in all likelihood will not go smoothly. And fer-chrissakes, the COVID is still with us along with the mask wars (but I’m lucky to have gotten two beautiful new ones made by an indigenous company in Canada for this fall season from my lovely friend Judy. I have agreed to share with Dennis. As my basket grows, photos may follow).

So there’s all that happening, but yet still, I feel the flutter of newness as the month of September marches on. It feels pretty primal no matter how many years I’ve been on the planet. And funny thing about that: Speaking of no control, as per the title of this blog, while I’m giving it up to mother nature, I also have been realizing I need to give it up on caring about looks and aging as well. Yes, I’m aware of what my body and face are doing within this 59th year. Somewhere in the last few a corner was turned a bit more sharply when it came to my age and I matching up closer to reality. Back in 2017, when I worked at Hearst and mentioned my age to the woman who sat next to me, she did a spit-take and said, “What? but … look at how you dress?” Okay, so really, I’m not sure of what to make of that. But since I normally fall on the side of bright rather than dark, I went with her giving me a compliment (altho now reading it back, maybe not. Anyhoo). Last Friday, when Dennis and I could finally get our hairs cut again, the fantastically cool stylist who I secretly thought might consider me also cool, said, “You guys are two of my favorite new customers. I was telling my partner how I wished you were my parents. You’d be the coolest.” People, this is another good use for masks: She could not see my jaw drop, not hear the muffled cry of whaaaaa? It wasn’t that she was dissing us at all. It was a compliment that slid in sideways. I think. In that moment, I was reminded that, no, I’m not a punk-rock-thirtysomething anymore, like she is, but an elder states-chick (like Patti?). It only took a couple of hours for me to move on, but then it was kind of freeing. Yes, I am a fine version of 59 who still has fun with style. And it’s fall. And I am now mature enough to understand why wearing a tartan wool jumper is not a thing right now. See? That’s progress!

(To help me really get it, one of my top-five fave writers, Caitlin Moran–funny, smart, age-appropriate) has a new book out on just this subject: More Than a Woman. YES, just YES.)