Possum Philosophy: As the days grow darker

By ROBERT CAHILL/Columnist

I know fall is coming. Lately, every morning, a small flock of Mourning Doves gathers in our front yard for breakfast. They return in the evening for supper. They are beautiful. Their call, on the other hand, is a somewhat sad sound (thus their name “mourning” doves). Larger flocks of other birds, such as starlings, are beginning to gather, but they generally gather in larger fields to feed.
One oddity is the hummingbirds. As other birds have begun appearing in larger numbers, the number of hummers appearing at our feeders has been decreasing. These tiny birds have a metabolism that is unbelievable. They must consume roughly their own weight in food daily or starve to death. I would guess they start their migration early to insure an adequate food supply of blooming plants along the way. Most North American hummers winter in Mexico and Central America, although studies now show some winter in the warmer coastal areas of the Southeastern U.S.
The birds are not the only reason I realize fall is upon us. Days, much to my dismay, are steadily growing shorter, the daylight hours rapidly decreasing. Sadly, at least for my fellow “summer lovers” and me, the Autumnal Equinox is upon us. Sunday, Sept. 21, is the last day of summer for us. On Monday, Sept. 22, the sun will cross the equator as the tilt of the earth changes. This brings more warmth and hours of daylight to the Southern Hemisphere, and cooler temperatures and more darkness to us here in the Northern Hemisphere.
A little side note is appropriate here. Many folks believe it gets cold here in the winter because that’s when the earth is farthest from the warmth-supplying sun. Not true. Here in the Northern Hemisphere, the sun is closest to the earth in December. However, it is the angle at which sunlight strikes the earth that determines the warmth and light.
As if the decreasing length of the summer afternoons were not bad enough, it has already produced a chilly night or two. Cool enough for me to want cover on the bed. This morning (Thursday) I sat drinking my morning first cup of coffee (or maybe it was my second, third or even fourth. What can I say? I am a descendant of a long line of real coffee drinkers. Many of my relatives, my dear mother included, kept a cup of coffee in their hands practically at all times). When I looked at a thermometer, it registered 52 degrees as the outside temperature and it was already full daylight, not the break of dawn. To us summer folk, that’s darn cold.
Another sad fact is that, along with the loss of long warm summer afternoons, the availability of my favorite fruit, locally grown tomatoes (yes, technically, tomatoes are not a vegetable, but a fruit) is rapidly dwindling. Oh, there are a few folks that planted a few plants late so they would have late season tomatoes, but sadly not that many. Before long, we will be eating those almost green, tasteless, hard balls the stores claim are tomatoes. Oh well, I guess it’s a good thing I like canned tomatoes almost as much as fresh ones. Well, not really, but I keep telling myself that.
To my further dismay with this season, it also signals the end of baseball season. Now ordinarily, as a third-generation Yankees’ fan, one who practically came from the cradle pulling for the Yanks, I would be highly excited about how my boys were going to finish and who they would meet in the playoffs. Terry, one of those miscreant Braves fans, would do the same for her team. Not this year. My boys are down 10 games with only 12 or so to play. To even have a chance, they would probably need to win out the rest of their schedule, while the teams ahead of them would have to lose most of theirs. And that’s just to make the league playoffs, not the World Series. And Terry’s beloved Braves? Well, they are currently 18 games back. There is no chance of them making the play-offs. So even the World Series won’t be much fun this year.
And there is one annual event that tells me fall is imminent. In the fall of 1954, I was perfectly happy as an only child. My Dad and I would watch the Yankees play ball usually once a week on our black-and-white TV. Then something strange happened. Mom had to go to the hospital for several days and when she came home she brought this kid with her, a tiny, squally little brat. And I have been stuck with him ever since. See, my brother Rusty was born on Sept. 21. My life as an only child was sadly done for.
From then on it was “Oh share your toys with your brother now” or “You can go but take your little brother with you, it will be fun.” Yeah, right, fun for Mom or Dad while I took care of that little brat.
But I guess over the years I got used to him. And it could be worse, I have seen guys with whom there’s no way I’d swap brothers. So, happy birthday on Sunday, Stanley. I guess maybe I could have done worse. 

A freelance journalist, Robert “Rocky” Cahill writes regularly for the News & Messenger. His Possum Philosophy column appears in each Saturday edition.