I smelled sweet grass. I was bound to smell something, because I was inches off the ground, sneaking up to the edge of a beaver pond, hoping to jump some ducks. It was opening day of duck season, and I was crawling. A dose of sweet grass was a welcome thing, as it always is, but in these circumstances, it could have been a lot worse.
Opening day is a big ritual. This time of year any hunting opener involves days and sometimes weeks of rituals. The hunter first hunts in the basement, or garage, and from there slowly inches closer to being prepared for the first morning, whether it's about ducks, like this morning, or bow season or bear, or ultimately, rifle deer. Think of all the rituals that go into these things — food preparation, equipment checks, calling friends, scouting, meeting friends, and then meeting them again after the hunt, the biggest ritual of all.
And it isn't limited to hunting. This is a season that is full of rituals. I like to think that crawling around in the crawl space to close the vents is an autumn ritual. I'd rather think of it that way than as a voluntary effort to bust up spider webs with my face, and feel for low damps spots with my knees.
Gathering up the summer lawn furniture is a sort of melancholy chore, but even as you put the things carefully away, you think about getting them out again next year, vowing to use them more and not waste so much time doing other things. It's a ritual with a little prayer.
So it is with putting away the boat, or the RV. Plans are made, as are promises between this side of the brain and that side of the brain. A promise made and a promise taken. The boat will be in earlier, and used more often (or sold). And the RV is the promise of more weekends, and more friends.
Firewood was an autumn ritual done in another season. We brought it home, stacked it and seasoned it long before the days evened out, but regardless, it is an autumn ritual.
Taking the screens off has always been more pleasure than putting them on. They have done their job, deserve a rest, and when they are off the windows and doors, you can see more clearly. The woods and yard are clearer, somehow closer.
Friday night football, and Sunday afternoon football are their own rituals. Somehow the stands on Friday night are some of the coldest experiences of the year, but who could forego watching these kids grow up, as they feel this Friday night, and the freedom of a weekend upon them.
Every day, this time of year, has some sort of small ritual to it, whether it's watching the world series, starting hockey, closing the cabin, taking in the garden, or mulching, or any of a hundreds of things that this season requires, and offers.
Pat Egan is the former publisher of the Sault Evening News. He is a recipient of the William Allen White award for editorial writing. He and his wife Debra live at Salt Point.
