As the ambient light casts longer shadows from objects whose angles seem slightly off kilter and momentary cool breezes tousle our hair. As the subtle change in leaf color and grass texture teases are perceptions. As the earthy smell of decay tickles our nostrils with the ending of a moment and the promise of a far off beginning of another we know that the autumnal equinox is upon us. We pull our covers a little closer at night and snuggle down a little longer as the sun urges us into a new day. It is fall and memories of childhood dreams and fantasies flood our senses and quicken our blood in an orgy of nostalgia.

As a child I reveled in the fall, I breathed it's musky odors and got lost in it's glorious colors. The sound of the fallen leaves under foot was a song whose melody was forever changing and evolving and I was alive with an energy that I still revisit every year. Little did I know as the innocence of childhood autumn celebrations unfolded around my young mind that I was being molded by that other entity of the third quarter of the year, the political season.

I remember standing on the platform at Union Station in Kansas City, Missouri. My four year old hand was held tightly within my mothers hand as the smell of diesel fuel mixed with summers demise. Upon the rail of the mighty train engine stood a figure in stripped overalls, faded engineers cap and red kerchief. He waved to the crowd of people that had gathered. He smiled a broad smile that almost outshone the red and gold's of the engine that mimicked the colors of the nearby trees. My mother bent down and whispered in my ear conspiratorially, "That's President Eisenhower," she said pointing up to the figure standing tall above me.

A day, a week or a month later I found myself in a sweat shirt, the hood tied tight around my small head and standing in front of a restaurant window with my mother. People bustled by their collars turned up against the chill air busy with whatever errand brought them out upon this gray day. My mother and I seemed within a bubble that was connected to the window that the passing people could not penetrate. My mother pointed to a couple which sat within the restaurant near the window where we now stood. "Do you know who that is?" My mother asked. The be speckled man turned his white haired head and fixed us with a stare. His female companion turned her eyes towards us and a twinkle showed within her kind eyes. The man's stern gaunt face broke into a smile. He and his companion waved at me and my mother then a motion of his hand told my mother it was time to turn and leave. "That," my mother said as we merged with the hurrying crowd, "was Harry and Bess Truman. Always remember that you saw them there." I did, as she admonished, always remembered that I "saw them there." Years later a friend and I had lunch at that same table with John Wayne but that is another story for another day.

Tuesday October 16^th, 1962 my mother, step father and I are living in the small Nebraska town of Ithaca. Late in the afternoon of this unusually warm fall day two events took place. My mother gave birth to my sister and the Cuban Missile Crisis began. Twelve days later on October 28^th, 1962 I find myself getting upset because President Kennedy has interrupted my favorite TV show, "Bonanza" to announce that the crisis is over. Why can't he do this on a commercial? Is all that I can wonder.

My Grandmothers birthday is the next day and all my young mind can think of is the big party that is going to happen tomorrow. All day long I have been fidgeting in my seat as thoughts of Grandma's birthday cake and the ice cream that will top it dance in my head. Miss Pile, my first grade teacher is called from the room by our school Principal. I watch the almost bare branches of a nearby tree sway slightly in the breeze against a clear blue sky. Miss Pile reenters the room and the chatter of the other kids stop as all eyes watch her walk to her desk. She sits down hard as if she has no bones in her body. Her gray head hangs down as she reaches up and removes her rimless glasses. She removes a tissue from the box on her desk and dabs at her eyes. She looks up and surveys the silent class. Are her eyes red? "Children," she chokes out as she rises to her feet, "School is dismissed for the rest of the day." I feel the excitement quicken my heart. "You are to head straight home." Is she crying? "Do not stop to play and do not dawdle," she orders. "Go home and talk to your parents." We rush out the doors, happy to be free! I run home my feet kicking up the dead leaves that carpet the ground. I stop once to jump into a huge pile of orange and yellow leaves. I enter my Grandmothers house breathless and smelling of the fall day. My Mother and Grandmother are both sitting in the living room in front of the GE Box. The flickering blue gray images on the TV screen hold my grandmother and mother transfixed tears fill their eyes. "What are you guys doing home?" I inquire. My grandma is manager of Pelletier's department store and usually does not get home until around 7:00pm. My mom works the toy department at Pelletier's and usually does not get home until around 5:30pm everyday. It is around two in the afternoon and they are definitely home way to early. "Grandma closed the store early" my mom says never looking away from the TV. I stand waiting for the rest of the explanation but neither one of them speaks. "Why?" I ask. Grandma looks at me tears streaming down her face, "President Kennedy is dead," she says flatly. Over the next few days my young senses are assailed with the sites and sounds of a nation in mourning and one mans revenge on the alleged assassin. My fall memories of 1963 will forever be painted in shades of gray and black.

Election night 1964 and our home is full of the sites and sounds of an election night watch party. I am sitting on the back stoop sharing a cupcake with my dog Buster. The chill night air fills my lungs and tastes good as I inhale it. If air indeed has a taste. Perhaps it is not so much a taste as a cool freshness that passes through the nose and into the lungs. Nah, it's a taste and it is very palatable as it mingles with the heavy vanilla flavor of the cupcakes frosting. Inside I hear cheers and someone yelling "Johnson won, Johnson won." I don't know who Johnson is or why he won and I don't care! I'm missing the Red Skelton show and at the moment that is all that is important to me. "It's time for them to go home." I tell Buster. He signals that he agrees as he licks my face. I sulk as I sit with my arm around my best friend and feel the cold creep through the seat of my pants.

October 25^th, 1966. My tenth birthday party was a huge hit with the neighborhood kids. We all dressed in costumes and played games among the falling leaves of the maples and cottonwoods that decorate my grandmothers front yard. My NASA Astronauts costume is the envy of all my friends and I still wear the Styrofoam helmet as I stuff a hamburger into my face. I sit cross legged in front of the coffee table as a cool fall breeze drifts through the window and fills the room. On the GE Television Walter Cronkite is busy giving the daily casualty toll from Viet Nam. I watch as Lady Bird Johnson answers questions at a press conference about the progress of the highway beautification act. Walter Cronkite cuts back in to assure us that peace in Viet Nam is imminent as images of soldiers under fire fill the screen.

It is now 40 years later and I can look back on these events with an almost scientific detachment and understand how they helped to shape my future political philosophies. Knowing that the political landscape was a part of the fall landscape was always a given but did not fully hit home until I found myself embroiled within the turmoil of a political campaign.

As the autumn leaves blow down the street in a dramatic parade of red, orange and yellow so too do I, at times, blow down the street into a parade of colors. Red, brown, yellow, black and white all have their needs and concerns. I must stop and listen to each one and help as I can so that the leaves of humanity do not blow aimlessly but find direction towards a more sympathetic government that will stop and care instead of float by on the wind.

A life time ago I was a child playing in the fantasy world of the fall season. Today I am a man working in the real world of the political season and dreaming of better days ahead for me and you.