Now is the fall of his content

There’s that first hint of autumn in the air. You notice it the way you notice a slap on the back. The air suddenly smells of butterscotch and wood smoke. Quick, someone pour me a brandy.

“Can you crack open those kitchen windows?” my wife asks. “It’s cooler outside than in.”

I love when she talks like that. Meteorological references have always been a big turn-on for me. I make a mental note to seduce her later, with home repairs and goblets of Trader Joe’s wine. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just give her cash.

“What are you doing, Dad?” the boy asks.

“Just thinking,” I say.

“Me too,” he mumbles.

Yes, in the air there’s a little taste of fall, which is to men what spring is to women. To men, fall is the season for hope and renewal. Football begins again. Baseball is heading into the playoffs. In the fall, it just seems that there is that much more for men to do. Bets to place. Wood to chop. Nuts to gather. Notice how even the lawns look better now? That’s fall.

“Look at those clouds,” the little girl says.

“Yeah, look,” I say.

“See that one?” she asks. “What’s it look like?”

“A dozen lawyers eating sushi?” I say.

“Really?” she asks.

“Or maybe the Last Supper,” I say.

All day, the clouds billow in from the coast, giant petticoats turned loose across the sky. We greet them as if they are a first snowfall. We blow on our hands. Whew. With the windchill, it can’t be much over 70.

It’s a little early for clouds to be billowing in like this. But they are a sign that the hot, dusty days of summer are mostly behind us. Can the Santa Ana winds be far behind, hot as Satan’s cigar? We’ll worry about that tomorrow.

“The furnace filter needs changing,” my wife says.

“You sure?” I say.

“Trust me,” she says.

She is first of all a building supe, then a wife. She knows our house’s noises, its moods, the movement of every ball bearing in every pump. If something is just fractionally off, she can hear it in her sleep. She once woke me to report that a filament would soon be going out in the garage. I changed the bulb the next morning.

So on the first cool day of September, I trudge to the basement and change the furnace filter. It is filled with our children’s hair, pine needles and the lint of a thousand socks.

When I finish that, I turn to other chores. I clean the barbecue. I edge the lawn. I lug four 80-pound bags of concrete mix to the side of the house. All in about 11 minutes. In the heat, I’d have spent four hours.

“Want some bacon?” my wife asks when I am done.

Do I want bacon. Does Romeo want Juliet? Does coffee want cream?

“Sure, I’ll have a little bacon,” I say as calmly as possible.

We’re back to big breakfasts and heavy sauces. Chilis and soups. On TV, Katie Couric is wearing wool. Or is that a sheep she has on her lap? She glows like a candied apple, whatever the reason.

Yes, finally, it is cooler outside than in. In the evening, we gather with a few friends to mark this seasonal shift. After the soccer game. Around a pool.

A little adult conversation is like scotch to me. A funny story. A dirty joke. Reassurance from another parent that raising children is just a little harder and more thankless than we might’ve expected. A few nuggets like that will get me through the long sobering nights ahead.

So for two splendid hours, the parents discuss:

* The state of the legal profession.

* The state of youth soccer.

* The war.

* The wonders of pizza.

* Great new books.

* Great old books.

* Whether sitcoms can be saved.

* Dogs.

“Should we go inside?” one of the moms asks as the sun ducks down behind the garage.

“Why?”

“It’s getting a little cool,” she says.

“I’m enjoying the cool,” another father says. “I love the cool.”

Quick, someone pour us a brandy.