This same time, years previous: in the garden, the quotidian (10.25.11), sweet potato pie, the morning kitchen, signs, news, and daydreams, and pizza with curried pumpkin sauce, sausage, and apples.  

Autumn is a pressurized time. Everything has to get done before winter hits. The garden must be put to bed, the yard cleaned up, the basement cleaned out, the barn rearranged, the fencing finished, etc.

Except for us it’s not the threat of winter that makes us jump. It’s the donut party. The donut party is our cracking whip. Our finish-line ribbon. Our mountain peak. After the party, it’s all inside cozy, rest and relaxation from there on out. Our summer is over. Welcome, Winter. Be our guest.

By now—after roughly ten years of donut madness—the party is no big deal. We know what time to get up in order to make the six batches of donuts and still get to church on time (5:00 am—it’s not that bad). We know when to heat the oil and when to add a second pot to the mix. We know how many paper cups to have on hand (roughly 175). We know how many apples (½ bushel, though I always get a full bushel), and how much cider (8 gallons) and coffee (60 cups worth). We know how much stress we’ll feel beforehand (a steady pressure—manageable but still enough to be draining). We know it’s normal (though not justifiable) to panic roughly one hour before start time because surely this year no one will come. We know not to expect to have meaningful conversations during the party and—as a result of staring at a pot of oil for four hours—to not have any clue how the party was received, so we’ve trained a few understanding friends to give us candid rundowns post-party. In other words, we pretty much have the donut party down to a science.

Still, something always goes wrong. This year, for some reason, the coffee pot made the coffee but didn’t keep it hot. The cider didn’t thaw in time. The donut scraps refused to roll out thinly and the final donuts were disgusting globs of yuck. Not that this stopped anyone from eating them.

People really chow down on those donuts. The unbridled donut-eating enthusiasm never ceases to amaze and delight me. And best as I could tell, the morning’s sermon on healthy eating—I kid you not—did not appear to deter a single soul.

This same time, years previous: random, the quotidian (10.12.12), breaking news, the first teenager, I couldn’t stop, a silly supper, aging, boy in a blue dress, tales of terror and woe, party panic, brown sugar syrup, buttermilk pancakes, apple tart with cider-rosemary glaze, and not what I planned.        

Late afternoons, my daughter often heads out for a ride. I follow, my son’s tripod in one hand, my camera bag (i.e. old cosmetic bag thingy that I lifted from my bro’s house) slung over my shoulder. I set up mid-field, facing into the setting sun.

It’s quiet out there. My daughter’s voice floats across the field. She keeps up a constant chatter with Isaac, alternating between heated scoldings and enthusiastic praise.

She’s constantly on the lookout for Isaac Triggers: galloping horses in the adjoining field, groundhog holes, dogs on the loose. (My husband told me that he was watching when a dog wandered into the field. My daughter was immediately off Isaac and standing by his head, holding tight to the reins…or whatever it is that you hold at the head.) She’s completely fearless and deeply cautious. It’s a sound combination.

Once as she came cantering by, she was laughing hysterically. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but when she got to the bottom of the hill, she told me that Isaac was almost galloping.

If you can’t control the situation, laugh. It’s a good motto.

Periodically, Isaac tries to buck her off. This doesn’t frighten her. It just makes her irritated. “He’s being a jerk,” she says.

A couple days ago, I read how to handle bucking horses in Jeanette Walls’ book Half Broke Horses, information which I then shared with my daughter. You’re supposed to yank back on the reins to pull the head up—the horse has to lower his head in order to kick with his back feet—and then whack him on the rump to make him move forward.

“Yep, that’s what I do,” she said.

So okay, then. Guess we got that covered.

At one point, she simply sat on Isaac’s back for an extended time, just looking around. I finally called, “Are you scared?”

“No,” she yelled back. “Just thinking!”

On one of her passes by me, she parked Isaac directly in front of me and launched into a horse story complete with dramatic interpretation. I didn’t hear much of what she said; I was having too much fun watching her.

When I head back to the house, my daughter enjoys following me on Isaac. But she doesn’t just follow behind—she follows right behind. You know that my-ankles-are-vulnerable-so-kick-your-feet-forward-and-jump panicky feeling you get when you’re being followed by a too-fast, too-close shopping cart? Being followed by a horse is worse. Way worse. Especially when that horse that is frothing green at the mouth, breathing heavily, and has a giddy rider.

This same time, years previous: the reading week, a pie party!, moments of silence, classic cheesecake, pumpkin-sausage cream sauce, rhubarb cake, and love, the Tooth Fairy.