A small but perfect window

My dad has long said that his favorite season is fall, and although my preferences vary according to the phase of the moon and what I had for dinner the night before, I agree with him more often than not. Today was what people mean when they say they love fall: a high of about 67 degrees, brilliant sunshine tempered by a freshening cool breeze, and the yellow-orange of the occasional maple in th mass of still-green oaks standing out like a shocking non-conformist.

While Noel tried to get interviews transcribed for one of his Hollywood Reporter stories, I took the kids to the playground, where (as usual in the spring, summer, and fall months) a birthday party was underway. Here's what I learned about kids today from listening to the chatter coming from them and their parents:

• Their names are "Madison, come ON!" and "Sierra! Sierra NICOLE!"
• The hot ditty of the moment is an irreverent send-up of R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly" in the spirit of "Jingle Bells, Batman Smells." As rendered by an eight-year-old over and over on the swings: "I believe I can flyyyyy! I got shot by the FBIiiiiiiy!"
• If circumstantial evidence can be believed, at least one ten-year-old girl in Conway is smoking without apparent parental disapproval. (I base this conclusion on said girl's pile of possessions left on the ground as she swung, and collected by her after she finished and headed back to the party where her folks were waiting: a tumbler of tea, a lighter, and a pack of Marlboros.)

Next week I get on a flight bound for Denver (direct, mercifully) for two days and three nights at the National Collegiate Honors Council meeting. The forecast is for cold weather, with snow flurries possible. I hope that there will still be some autumn left when I get home.