Today the weather was perfect for a long walk. I decided to take a twelve-mile hike to the used bookstores at the edge of downtown. Objective: to purchase a volume of G.K. Chesterton's Father Brown stories. (To avoid keeping the reader in a state of tingling suspense, I will right now declare my good fortune in finding a compilation of fifty-one of the Father Brown stories, gathered from the volumes published from 1911 to 1936.)
All along my route I marveled at the autumn colors of the leaves, beginning with the maroon trees near my townhouse (see above). I saw leaf colors ranging from deep maroon, to red, to burnt-orange, to yellow, to yellow-green, to the original green. The beauty was a treat for the eyes.
I needed this beauty to offset a subsequent eyesore: a shirtless old man on a bicycle. He was suffering from a not uncommon condition in testosterone-depleted old men called gynecomastia (old man breasts). But no, I misspeak. The old man did not suffer. All of the suffering was experienced by us onlookers. The old man himself was merrily pedaling along, enjoying the warm sunshine on his budding appendages.
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