Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit—And Why Fall Beats the Pants off the Rest of the Year

Now, I don’t put much stock in superstition, unless of course it promises me good luck without any effort on my part. Which is why, this morning, before I even located my spectacles or my pants, I hollered into the mirror: “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit!” Three times, just like a proper lunatic. Why? Because it’s September, a new month, and frankly if I can earn thirty days of prosperity by mumbling about rodents, I’ll gladly skip the rabbit stew.

And speaking of months, September is the one that finally throws off the sweaty shackles of August. Gone are the days when every conversation begins with, “Boy, it sure is hot.” Yes, thanks, I noticed—I was the one who just passed out in the begonias. Fall arrives like a respectable aunt who says, “There, there, you’ve suffered enough,” and lays a crisp, cool hand on your fevered brow.

The Weather (or, Nature’s Apology Tour)

Let us give due credit to autumn’s most remarkable achievement: the temperature no longer threatens to cook us medium-rare. The air is cool, brisk, and downright civil, like a politician still trying to get elected. For a few blessed weeks, we can step outside without resembling wilted lettuce.

And the leaves! They don’t just fall. They audition. A maple doesn’t simply give up and drop its greenery—it stages a dramatic farewell tour in every shade from blood-orange to burnt-sienna. Each tree is a Broadway diva, throwing sequins of color to the adoring peasants below. I, for one, applaud.

Football, Pumpkins, and Other Cult Rituals

Now, I confess, I have little interest in the arcane sport of football, which seems to be men in helmets committing aggravated assault on grass. Still, it’s useful: the games keep us too distracted to notice our stolen pumpkins. Pumpkins, you see, are the Swiss Army knives of produce. You can carve them, cook them, or leave them on the porch until they rot into something resembling a political candidate.

And don’t get me started on pumpkin spice. It’s everywhere. Coffee, beer, dog treats, shampoo. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised to find pumpkin spice in my toothpaste. (Patent pending, if it isn’t already.) The craze proves that people will eat or drink anything, provided it’s sprinkled with enough cinnamon to remind them of Grandma’s kitchen instead of reality.

The Clothes Finally Make Sense

Summer fashion is nothing but a conspiracy by fabric merchants to sell scraps disguised as garments. Fall, on the other hand, allows a civilized human to wear proper clothing: sweaters, jackets, and scarves so large they could double as tents. There is no greater joy than rediscovering a coat pocket with last year’s forgotten five-dollar bill. It’s like Christmas, except without the family arguments.

Harvest and Other Lies

The harvest season is celebrated as though most of us still till the fields with our bare hands. Nonsense. The closest many of us come to harvesting is bagging a sack of Honeycrisp apples from the grocery store and pretending we “went picking.” Still, I respect the principle: farmers do the labor, we take selfies with hay bales, and everybody feels wholesome.

Why Fall is the Favorite Child

Spring is soggy, summer is sweaty, winter is cruel. But fall—ah, fall is the Goldilocks of seasons. Just right. Long walks feel possible again. Food tastes better, because the oven doesn’t double as central heating. And holidays are on the horizon, but still distant enough that nobody’s throwing tinsel at your head.

So here I stand, in full-throated praise of September, clutching my coffee (pumpkin-flavored, naturally), whispering to myself Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit. If luck exists, I want a heap of it this month—because if life has taught me anything, it’s that good fortune is like autumn leaves: it shows up gloriously, flutters about for a short while, and then, just when you’re getting comfortable, blows away down the street.

Until then, dear reader, put on your sweater, kick a leaf pile like a ten-year-old delinquent, and give thanks for the one season that truly knows how to behave.

From my Union Home to yours, Happy Labor Day and September 1!

Julie Bolejack, MBA