NOW it's autumn

I judge the advent of autumn in many ways:

The calendar, which is usually unreliable since it can still be in the 90s for weeks.

The turning of the leaves, except this year it's been so dry we're just happy to see trees still having leaves, no matter the color.

The urge to put away all white slacks and sandals. (But I did that the week after Labor Day so it hardly counts. Some Southern traditions are ingrained.)

Turning off the a/c and opening the windows is a hint. Turning off the ceiling fans, which I did today, is closer to confirmation.

Eyeing my closet and moving tank tops and crop pants out, three-quarter sleeve garments in.

Realizing I have to put on real shoes or risk very cold toes. Happened this morning. Had to scramble for loafers, so this afternoon I packed away my sandals.

But the one sure way to know it's autumn for me: the changing of the purse. Good-bye woven bag with bright orange trim, hello dark brown leather.

There's a nip in the air!

Tweaking the fashion rules

Here in North Texas, the weather takes on sports-predictor status as the seasons change. It may be lake effect snow and skiing elsewhere in the country, but here it's 16 degrees one week and 80 the next, precipitation optional. Usually one can add in lots of wind to that, so that the daffodils (which are on time in their arrival) and the tulips (a month early, as usual) will be bowled over and broken in short order.

But we're in a mid-70, moderate wind week, so the heat is off, select windows are up, and the winter wardrobe is being pushed aside. I wanted something springlike, so I grabbed the denim gauchos and the early-spring green tee shirt and took a deep breath.

What to put on my feet?

Even I have my limits as to sandals--it was in the 70s, not 80s--as I needed more of a shoe. I don't like to wear my "tennis" shoes for anything but exercising, so I sorted through the late-summer pile and found some canvas sneaker-y (how's that for a new word?) type things and slipped them on. Looked so good.

If it were June. The shoes are white.

My mother's voice rose in the back of my mind: no white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. All good (now) middle-aged Southern women know this. I doubt it's still a dictum, but the guilt was there nonetheless.

The shoes were white, the month February. I looked at my feet. I looked at my image in the mirror. It was the only way to go.
After all, it was after Valentine's Day.

And all modern Southern girls know, you can't wear white before Valentine's.