Fall is my favorite time of year. Brilliant red and orange leaves adorn the tree-lined streets before falling to the ground. That first morning when you need to put on a hoodie. A break in brutal running temperatures. The calm before the long succession of birthdays and holidays and drab winter blues. Pumpkin Spice coffee.
And house flags.
We currently don't have one. Because I am currently circling the drain of a low time, the subject matter best covered in another blog, on another day. Of course, I can't blame our flagless front stoop entirely on my malaise. After all, we haven't flown one since...April? May? The pirate flag, still waiting to be hemmed, is, well, still waiting to be hemmed. And so, I am hoping for the perfect opportunity, when energy and enthusiasm and soon to be forgotten preoccupation make it so that I am able to once again think about what is hanging in front of our home, and hoping it is warm, inviting, and somehow speaks to who we are. Something that says, Yes, I would like to know those people who live in that house. Their yard leaves much to be desired, and they could probably use a new roof, but what a nice flag.
Heath is actually responsible for bringing the flags to my attention. He has somehow caught Carolina Panthers fever and spots their growling feline everywhere. Cars, the downtown stadium, billboards, telephone book ads, clothing, and yes, house flags.
Must be game day, he says, and points to college and football team flags with whole-hearted enthusiasm. His voice, deepened and wise, as if he is professing something of utmost importance. Never in my life have I said, Must be game day, so I am assuming Mark brought this phenomenon to our home.
If it is a Panther flag or car magnet or t-shirt, Heath says, There's a bobcat.
It's not a bobcat. It's a panther. And now matter how often we gently guide Heath in the direction of calling it by the correct name, he refuses. Oh, I see, it DOES look like a bobcat, doesn't it? That's a Carolina Panther. But he doesn't budge from his original animal declaration. If you ask Heath, it's a bobcat. Period.
Because we live where we live, and it's the season, and frequently game day, we see the Panther ALL DAY LONG. And ALL DAY LONG he calls it a bobcat. I correct him. He tells me, No, it's a bobcat. And I finally give up and let him call it what he wants.
We ate at Eddie's for dinner on Friday night, after a long week of school and appointments and jam-packed running schedule. On the drive there Heath said he wanted to draw a bobcat on the back of the menu. I thought it was lovely idea, and was sure that he would forget all about it once we got seated in our booth and the jukebox music would begin to drown out coherent thought.
But he didn't forget. And with a blue crayon, he drew a Panther, I mean Bobcat, complete with eyes, whiskers, and a fierce, growling mouth.
If they call themselves the Bobcats, I wonder if they could win?
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