Fall was my mother’s favorite time of the year. Mine is spring…and summer. I hate fall when daylight draws in like a Victorian lady in her girdle and cold fingers creep over the landscape treating everything they touch to shivery coldness.

My mother loved the bright colors of fall. With seven children in the house, Mom got very little time for the things she loved—reading, putting puzzles together, and doing paint-by-number paintings. Our family favorite was an autumn landscape she did. Poor Mom. I don’t remember her painting ever winning the accolade of a frame, but it hung in our living room for many years.

Mom eschewed housework and cooking. She was no good at either. But she was great at the things she loved. And unless it came to Democrats, Mom lived by what she preached: “If you can’t think of anything good to say—don’t say anything at all.”

It’s funny how falling leaves rain down memories. Perhaps because it takes my mind off cold and misery and the relentless approach of winter—the one season of the year I truly hate. I hate cold. I hate being cold. They say that some things “grow” on a person. Winter and fall will never grow on me—they’ve had their chance since childhood.

When I get through writing books, I’m going back to oil painting. Perhaps winter will grow on me then. Meanwhile, fall is falling and I’m doing my best to praise the Lord anyway and remember: This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update