It’s September again and rather on its way to October. The farmstand near campus has had a cart of mums out since the first week of classes, when it was still August, when the weather turned an autumnal chill strangely early. Those August mums sported tight, closed buds, and now the cart riots lavender and yellow, orange and russet. I refuse to buy any. It’s been hovering in the eighties in Pennsylvania, a guilty summer stealing while storms rake the Caribbean.
It’s September again and that means we’re well back to school. It’s been an eventful month: we just finished the “Writing: A Life” week-long residency by Adam Tavel, a Lebanon Valley College alumnus and a damn fine poet and an even better human being whose new new book, The Fawn Abyss, is beautifully written and beautifully wrought; we’re coming up on a reading and workshop with Adrian Matejka, whose Map to the Stars keeps echoing into everything I look at, everything limned with stardust; a trip to the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire and two movie nights with my First Year Experience students, who are spending a semester with me on all manner of things medieval.
It’s September again and because new school years are new years entire, new beginnings all told, I proposed a creative writing major for our campus. Today it passed through the curriculum committee and faculty vote. I’m excited for what this means long-term.
It’s September again but still there’s baseball. I wrote a longer piece for Baseball Prospectus that I’m particularly pleased with: “A Meditation on a Mess of Baseball Cards.”
It’s September again. Hello.