THE MONTH OF OCTOBER gave us some glorious fall days. They were days that, for me, brought back memories of childhood - of the crisp, dry air and soft sunlight of an Iowa "Indian summer." Those were the days I longed to play hooky from school, to run with wild abandon, leaping headlong into a pile of dry leaves, then stretching out amid the reds and golds, peering up through the bare branches at a crystal blue sky.

But I never played hooky. I earned my gold stars for perfect attendance and A's on my report cards. I followed the rules, but I didn't follow my heart on those rare, warm October days.

So what possessed me now - at age 36, with a well-paying job, a loving husband, a home in the suburbs and an adolescent dog my parents refer to as their "grandpuppy" - to finally take the plunge? Could it have been the dry stillness of the air? The rare sound of Western Oregon's leaves crunching beneath my feet? Whatever it was, it called to me as it did so many years ago, and I finally had the courage to follow my heart.

The meetings would go on just fine without me. The e-mail would accumulate for another day. Projects would wait. The sunlight would not.

I called in a day of "unexpected personal leave" and took off for the hills of wine country with my dog, a notebook and a copy of "The Selected Works of Thoreau." I wound through curvy, forested roads and along the ridge tops, gazing out over the golden patchwork of fields, punctuated by dark evergreens and crimson maples.

My dog and I watched Canada geese gathering, honking, taking off in small groups, circling, forming and rearranging V's in restless preparation for their fall journey. Hawks circled overhead and herons waited patiently for prey to swim their way.

I picked up a sandwich in a nearby town and headed out to one of the vineyards in search of the perfect picnic spot. With my dog napping at my feet, I sat quietly, watching white butterflies and bright orange ladybugs flutter and dance among the last of the year's flowering perennials.

Vines, touched with brown and gold, stretched across the valley in perfect rows. The sun warmed my face with a soft, southern light, unlike the intense rays of summer. For the first time in years I stopped long enough to listen - not just to hear, but to really listen - to the sweet song of robins, the soothing, rhythmic chirps of crickets, the rising baritone of pond frogs.

My reverie was interrupted by a sudden desire to run. There were no leaf piles to jump into, but my dog caught my glance and took off across the soft, green expanse of grass. We ran and jumped and chased butterflies. He threw himself onto the ground and began to roll and stretch in the dappled sunlight beneath an old spreading walnut tree. I took his cue and did the same, looking up through the twining branches at the clear, blue sky beyond.

I found myself laughing. Not the laughter of sitcoms, e-mail jokes or water cooler punch lines, but the laughter of a child, of a heart filled with joy and a mind free of the stress of daily life

On the way home I passed a little country church with a sign out front that read:

 JENNIFER ALLEN NEWTON,

who lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon,
swears she will never lament
her day of playing hooky,
even if her boss reads this story.

The Sunday Oregonian
February 27, 2000

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