Here in the Chicagoland area, the leaves are turning and, along with the temperatures,  soon will be falling. But before Old Man Winter completes his insidious takeover of temperatures, the mythical Injuns will provide a last burst of mild-to-warm days with which we indigenous types can enjoy a last outdoor dining experience, a bike ride, tennis, a boat ride or whatever can be indulged while wearing no more than two layers of clothing. I know there are those who claim to prefer winter to summer, but unless those folks are of Inuit or Emperor Penguin ancestry, it makes no sense to me. Summer and winter can both be extreme, but one never has to shovel heat, or scrape it off a windshield, nor slip on it and break a hip. Nor does heat require rock salt. Okay, maybe extreme heat can kill as does exposure in winter, but what the hell? It’s 2010 and it’s not like we’re all hunters and gatherers moping around a wilderness while striving to climb up from the ground floor of Maslow’s Pyramid of Needs. And even if we were, I’d rather be Fred Flintstone of Furness Creek, California than Blue-lipped Bob of Barrow, Alaska. So, bring on that last balmy breeze or two or three you Indians of Summer. Whatever winter brings, at this point in the history of my Mid-Western habitation, I’m sure I’ll again be able to say “You think this is bad? I’ve been in a lot worse than this!” And my reward will be reaching the regenerative splendor of spring and what follows. I’ll take my chances anytime with a season in the sun, leaves holding tight to their branches, vegetable gardens and even the occasional biblical rain. After all, I have the good sense not to live next to a river…