Last night I fed the horses around six o’clock. It was already dark. This morning, seated at table with coffee cup in hand, I notice cotton harvesters in my neighbor’s field. Headers down, they move slow, like giant hogs rooting for grubs.  

           Summer’s hittin’ the road, says the brown grass waving in the pasture. Winter’s a-comin’, says the north wind rattling the barn doors.

           I take a sip of coffee and review the day’s to-do list: haul hay to the horse lot, muck the stalls, check the supply of wood pellets in the tack room, drive to town for a tube of putty to seal a loose window pane, cover the vents in AC window unit, then polish my homily for the Feast of All Souls.  

           Known as “The Day of the Dead” in Hispanic parishes, the special day calls for special care. Sanctuaries will overflow with pictures of loved ones who have died: soldiers, farm hands, grandparents, infants, cheerleaders, park rangers.

           I wish I were Hispanic. They cherish family memories and rejoice in the communion of saints. They also appreciate this time of year. Unlike sufferers of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), they experience bouts of SAM (Seasonal Affective Memories). 

           So do I.

           I like SAM. Each Fall, he shows up at my door. In place of beer and pizza, he brings a cell phone with lots of pictures. We’ll spend the evening scrolling through shots snapped inside wedding reception halls, cattle barns at county fairs and nursing home dining rooms. 

            They’ll be pictures of jack-o-lanterns on backyard decks, Easter baskets on kitchen tables, and four-inch bluegills hanging on a fishing line. High school quarterbacks holding trophies. Young mothers holding newborns. First Communicants clutching rosaries on the steps of a church. 

            Now and then, while scanning various settings and scenes,  I’ll catch a whiff of campfire smoke, diesel fumes, purple lilacs or calf manure.   

            The sound of wind draws me back to the window. I sit back and finish off the tepid coffee.

            Outside, beyond the pasture, harvesters continue their crawl across the brown-spindled, cotton-sparkled field.