JOY ALONG THE WAY: FALLING LEAVES SIGNAL INDOOR WORK

When I look around at the tattered shrubs, half their leaves gone with the wind or caught, untidily, in the lower branches, the trees in much the same stage of undress, the grass dying in fence corners, milkpods gaping openly, I am prone to announce, "The whole world has gone to seed!" The statement has two meanings. One is degrading for the unkempt look of everything, the other so literal. Even as one stands observing, a drifting thistle fluff with its puffy silken parachute bearing a seed may land nearby in the footprint you have just made, or a hickory nut may thump you on the head. If you are walking in the woods you may step on a black walnut, a hickory nut, a sweet gum or sycamore hall -- all seeds. You may brush against a turkey berry bush and knock off some of the red berries, reach up to gather a bunch of fox grapes, stoop to pick sticky Spanish needles or a strip of beggar's lice from your clothing -- still more seeds. Yes, the whole world is going to seed. I overtly cause a wrinkle or two myself, digging up some soil to deposit a few bulbs. I cannot let an autumn go by without sticking a few bulbs in the soil. I put them where I'll be surprised to see them in the spring, hopefully having forgotten where I put them.

House interior that has grown a bit "seedy" while I've sat in the garden seat or under fragrant blooming bush can now be redded up.

"I'll do the windows one more time this year, before the sleet and snow," I tell myself. And forthwith my helper tackles the shades, glass, curtains and woodwork. When this is done, I wish company would come and be surprised at the bit of tidiness. Only my helper and I will know that some of the tapes that have already been replaced once in their lifetimes had to be repaired again, this time with pins or needle and thread. I don't know of anyone who will repair the old slated blinds. Repairmen want only big jobs now and will wait for them. I wish I could hear a cart rattling down the street with the pusher shouting, "Repair blinds, sticky doors, lost handles, loose boards, missing pickets, bent downspouts, lost shingles, I'll fix em all and a hundred more things too."

Lacking such a fix-it person who can get to it immediately, I start jobs myself.

I start by arranging the newly-brought-in pots of flowers. I decided I'd bring in the red begonias. They were so healthy looking it seemed a shame to let them suffer a cold demise. The carpets need a deep cleaning. Maybe I could put some new covers on the old tired cushions, wash the bed ruffles and, while I had the mattresses off, dust the spring slats. Who knows what I might find under the beds where things have been hastily pushed out of sight to give the rooms a false sense of orderliness.

But, of course, there is my list of books I wish to read while the outside is sleeping. Maybe I could tolerate the cushions a little longer and just do one bed. The guest room is seldom used. I can spray it with some fragrance, close the door and have a cheerful rest of the house. Such plans for the winter inside house almost makes me purr.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.