Tuesday, October 27, 2025
The other morning, after the first full freeze of the season, I was out with Shelby and Grace. Shelby, a cattle dog, often locks her gaze on things “out there,” studying, measuring, trying to figure out what’s real and what’s just a shadow. Fall can play tricks on her with its shifting colors, but today she stood utterly still, only her eyes moved as they slowly scanned the plowed field and the thicket of trees behind the house.
As Grace and I matched her stillness, I realized what had captured her attention. I heard it: a sound I hadn’t noticed since I was a child. Not just the rustle of leaves hitting the ground, but the soft, almost imperceptible whisper they make as they let go of the tree, sometimes punctuated by a tiny click or snap. On a windless fall morning, the world seemed to pause, and I could hear each leaf drifting down, one by one.
In that quiet moment, with the frost in the air and the year’s losses present in my mind, I was reminded how easily the things — and the people — that matter can slip by if we don’t pause to notice.
Moments like this ask only that we notice.
RIP Randy Lee and God Speed John Younglove.
Until Next Time,
Mary Schuster
Chief Knowledge Officer
October Research, LLC