Fall

The sky is blue. Piercing blue, and the air is crisp and cold.

The backyard, resplendent in fall colours: red, yellow, orange. One tree is still almost entirely green, with the leaves on only the topmost branches turning blood red, each day, one by one. Another tree, in the neighbour's yard, is almost completely bare, save for a bird's nest that sways in the wind but stays secure.

Wet leaves blanket the yard, and the black-eyed Susans have lost their bloom. The bougainvillea branches, stringy and dry, stubbornly hold onto a few last fuchsia petals.

I should be planting tulip bulbs. And daffodils. I will be mad at myself next spring if I don't plant them now.

Instead I collect the last of the kale and a bowl full of green tomatoes. There wasn't enough sun for them to ripen on the vine. Google promises me they can be roasted or fried, turned into chutney, salsa or soup. I am skeptical, but willing to try.

My husband is putting away the patio furniture: piling up the chairs, dismantling the table, drying out the seat cushions. The deck looks much larger. We should have painted it this summer. It would have dried quickly in the heat. But now the worn out browns blend in with the turning leaves and speak gently with the memory of barbecue suppers and laughter with friends late into the night.

The sun through the glass feels warm and teases me into thinking it could still be summer, if I just close my eyes and believe.

Let me tell you about the men in my life

I can hardly believe this behaviour we are witnessing, the insults and revelations revealed daily, indeed with such alarming frequency that they risk becoming almost meaningless. Such venom and bile that spews forth from this awful being and the people who surround him. Why must we listen to his garbage, to give it credence or even the tiniest bit of attention? Who is he, with his billions? He may have great wealth in material but he lives in extreme poverty of spirit. His jowls quivering, his sausage fingers wagging, his tangy hair flapping -- he is so far removed from reality as to be a farce, a caricature of a certain kind of creature (I won't call him a man) that he deserves only to be ignored and rendered irrelevant.

He is the furthest away in action and temperament from all the men I have ever known, so far away as to be in an alternate universe, now hopefully careening towards a black hole to be sucked up in one great gasp and then forgotten.

The men in my life are good: Husband, sons, father, stepfather, father-in-law, brothers, brothers-in-law, uncles, cousins, nephews, ex-boyfriends, neighbours, coworkers and friends. They are respectful without being condescending, loving without being violent, protective without being patronizing, gentle without being weak, proud without feeling threatened.

I have never been threatened or felt unsafe or insulted by a man. I do know women who have been treated badly by men. I know it happens all too often, and I know it leaves lasting and painful damage. I simply am fortunate to have been treated well by the men in my life, so I also know that good men do exist and that it is possible to live and thrive in a world where women can shine without eclipsing or being eclipsed by men.

I want my sons to be proud of who they are, not shamed because of the behaviour of one jackass who should apologize, not only for his behaviour and not only to the women he has violated, but also to the men whose reputations he sullies by his own words and deeds.

The men in my life are good and decent people, and treat me as a good and decent person. For this I am not grateful -- it is as it should be! -- but rather I am cognizant that it is not the experience of every woman and so I must raise my daughter to expect it as her right, and my sons to emulate the very good men I know.