A boy and his grandfather walked leisurely along the back street
of the quiet coastal town where they lived. It was a beautiful, sunny
morning and the mountains were parading a coat of electric green, a gift from
the rainstorm that had pounded the coast a few days before. John and
Grandpa George craned their necks to take in the great green mounds which rose
sharply behind the well-kept backyards of the little houses they passed.
"Do you feel it, John?"
They continued to walk along the lazily winding street, luxuriously taking in
deep breaths of salty sea air. Up ahead, just past Ms. Whitman's,
they could see the beginning of the old Chumash Indian trail that led to their
favorite lookout spot high above the town.
"Feel what, Grandpa?" asked the boy.
"Why, the first breath of fall," said George.
"Well," said John slowly. "I can feel the wind coming off of the
mountains, and not from the sea like it usually does. The sky is different, too. The blue
is a deeper blue, I guess. I also noticed this morning that the leaves on the sycamore in the front yard
are turning colors. Is that what you mean, Grandpa?"
"Yes, John, very good." His grandfather laughed lightly
and gave the boy's shoulders an affectionate squeeze, thinking to himself how strange
and delightful it was to watch this little boy mature into a young man.