The frost is on the pumpkin. The Japanese ladybugs are back, leaving their foul smell and taste wherever they may flutter and crawl. The persimmons are smooth and sweet, but mostly gone. The dogs are shedding (and wrestling), making room for their winter coats, still meager and thin as compared to the mighty Bobo’s phalanx of fur. Everyone seems to be eating (or drinking) more. Winter is close upon us.

The fruits of the season’s labors have been put up, stocking the larders; the chimneys are being swept, the wood collected, chopped and stacked. I continue to pester the local wildlife and our new neighbors with my outdoor musical pursuits when the days are fair. A conversation I had with a new friend the other day brought me around to one of my recurring themes: How my surroundings are reflected in my music.

I was speaking with my mother the other day, and she was talking about her interest in ceramics and perhaps setting herself up at her Texas home to make some. She was filled with her mother’s pride in my talents as I was telling her about my renewed enthusiasm for music thanks to the entrance of a Sousaphone into my life.

She claims I got my talent from my father and her father (largely ignoring the fact that anything from her father had to pass to me from her. He, in fact was a Welsh-born jazz pianist licensed to teach piano in this country at the age of 11!). I told her to count her own skills, pointing out that she long held interests in visual arts; we painted and stained ceramic figures together — hers were masterful — and she has painted numerous and beautiful landscapes. She also is an accomplished amateur photographer.

Earlier this week, I enjoyed a class reunion of sorts. It was brilliant. The Butthole Surfers played in Columbus on Monday. I heckled, I danced, I made friends with the biggest men in the room. I kept thrusting my arm in the air as a signal to all of my friends that it was OK to be right up front, but no one heeded my call. It’s OK.

I have been thinking about age lately. I guess that I am now an elder statesman, at least as far as most of the young musicians in this town go. Maybe it’s one of those acts of self-deception. It’s weird. I still feel the same; everyone just seems like they are so very young.

This concert I went to, it was a no-brainer, more or less. Some folks (friends) were actually so deep into Life that they had to consider whether they were going to the show. I, luckily, have maintained a level of irresponsibility that allows me to occasionally ignore life and pay homage to an idea.

As the leaves fall, they are joined by a somber little fruit, peachy-orange with heart-shaped seeds that possess predictive powers. I speak of the persimmon. My dogs love them. Seriously.

We were going for my customary drag through the woods when the hounds stumbled upon an exciting scent. I thought certain it was some fascinating animal leftovers — the coyotes have been very attentive to our neighborhood as of late. Finally, Bitty scored. She tentatively grabbed a pithy persimmon, spit it out, picked it up, spit it out, etc., until nothing but pulp remained. I was amused, but the dogs were aroused.

Jingoism! Jingoism! Rah! Rah! Rah! Demagoguery! Demagoguery! Shish Boom Bah! I was confronted with an uncomfortable level of patriotism last weekend. Given, it was Sept. 11 and all of that, that’s one thing, but to make me take my hat off and recite the Pledge of Allegiance to a polyester flag stapled to a fake wall on a stage struck me as a bit contrived.

I am all about America. I am a patriot, and I don’t think my diatribe about the abuse of the American flag should go here, but lacking any other substantive thing to write about, I might as well.

I was brought up in an environment that honored the flag. We put it up in the morning and took it down in the evening. It did not hang out in the rain; it saw no nighttime flying. If the flag touched the ground it was to be burned — and we did not let it touch the ground. I grew up knowing how to fold a flag into a tight triangle, and in an unrelated rant, I know how to fold a map.

One of the joys of writing this article is that I get to preach to the choir. Certainly, those of you who take the time to read this column are intelligent, articulate individuals with strong role models and healthy work ethics. You obviously comport yourselves with heads held high and trash cans in sight; hell, you probably even recycle. I needn’t chastise or educate you about the poor behavior of some of this town’s witless denizens. It can be fun, though, poking fun at this insidious miasma.

We here at The Athens NEWS are avid supporters of the music scene. There are at least three levels of coverage that occur each week, mostly on Thursdays. I write this weekly column. Editor Terry Smith compiles the “What’s Happening” section, and photo editor Ed Venrick finds photos of bands during the layout process (please note: I DO NOT have anything to do with the photos; I am just a word man, man). If you e-mail us at least a week before your show, we can serve you better. My deadline for this article is noon on Monday for Thursday’s edition: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it , This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .

I declared it officially at the end of last week’s column, but I will restate it here: summer is over. If the delightfully pleasant weather hasn’t convinced you this week, then the hordes of returning students might just. I know for a fact that the summer is over because I have already been threatened with bodily harm. That’s how I determine the end of summer. Well, at least I know the students are back. Close enough.

Was I being bugnacious? It seems to be the case. The scene: a busy West Washington Street, nine-ish Friday night. We were attempting to back the car into a parking space in the fashion that is commonly accepted in this town: turn signal on, backing lights on, moving in reverse. The driver in the truck behind us did not receive the memo. As we attempted to back up, he continued to inch (even foot) his way forward, honking his disdain at us. An impasse threatened. To alleviate the nonsense and being a passenger, I climbed quickly out of the car, holding a hand up to the truck driver — because he was obviously not catching the drift — and helping the driver to back the car into the spot.

Have you Google Mapped your house lately? For some reason I looked up my former residence in Colorado the other night. If you didn’t know, with Google Maps you can choose to zoom right in and look at your front door, though many neighborhoods aren’t yet mapped. If they are, though, you can spin 180 degrees and look across the street, you can cruise down the block, look side to side, even up at the power lines and the sky. The first time I looked, it was a cloudy day.

I’m not sure if I took a look at the house before I went to Colorado, but I know that I did when I was there. The day was cloudy and Jesse’s sister’s car was parked in the driveway. At least it looked like her car. It was kind of funny; then it was sunny.

When I looked up that long-gone home the other night, I was mildly surprised to find a different picture of the same house. And it was sunny. And our car was sitting in front of the house. Yikes!

Music can be found everywhere in our society, albeit increasingly less in the curricula of many of our public school systems. Asides aside (I’ll save that rant for another day), it seems that no matter where you go, music is playing. It is hard to escape sometimes, especially in stores and at traffic lights.

The other day I went to the Athena Grand to take in a movie. As soon as I entered the lobby, I was overwhelmed. This is not an unusual occurrence; it happens with some frequency, but this time, there was an added dimension.

This is certainly one of my favorite weeks of the summer. The calendar has conspired to bless us with the Athens County Fair, tonight’s Demolition Derby (fairgrounds), this afternoon’s Hot Dog Derby (Jackie O’s), and Saturday’s Athens Community Music Fest (ACMF - all over town!).

The Demolition Derby, I fear, may be an endangered species. I speak, of course, about the Cash for Clunkers program. As much as I appreciate the federal government’s attempts to stimulate the economy and curtail our fossil-fuel consumption, thereby minimizing our carbon footprint, I can’t help but think about all of those perfectly good cars becoming naught but clumps of squashed metal, let alone those liquid-glass-filled engines.