This is life right now: We’re in the final stretch of fall. It’s breathtaking and melancholy, per usual. Every day holds a little less of summer, a little more of winter.

I found myself belting out “Total Eclipse of the Heart” along with Bonnie Tyler in the car last night, nostalgic and deeply moved, because that’s what fall does to you. The oaks are extinguished, and now the cottonwoods are all flamey yellow. Every time I see them, I warn myself: This is it. After eight months of something new and beautiful every week, the big off switch of winter is coming.

Dan is home from hunting with a nice buck deer. It’s so good to have him back. He’s like this gravitational force pulling us all back to center, or at least to cleanliness and solid ethics. I found this note I jotted down about Dan being gone: “We all get a little unstrung and undone,” which may or may not have referred to how after finding our cat’s kibbly puke in the solarium, I walked right past it, knowing the nighttime raccoons would clean it up soon enough.

The butchering was smooth, and I know I say it every year, but it’s true in a truer way this year: The kids were certifiably helpful. Each kid got a chunk of meat, a knife and a spot at the butchering table. Their work reflected their personalities perfectly. Rose was tidy and precise, Col was experimental and kinesthetic. I love this work, the intimacy of it, the celebration of it, the way it makes me feel deeply wealthy. Not to mention, the way it fills my freezer with meat so nutritious it seems medicinal.

Right now, Rose is honoring the spirit of Lou Reed, singing “doo doo doo doo da doo,” while appraising her dancing reflection in the window. Col is asking, “would it be OK if I started a very small fire in the yard?” Which is to say, it’s a perfectly ordinary day. Col, who bravely slept alone the eight nights Dan was gone (because Rose was in my room), told Rose he was ready for her to come back and sleep in their room, which is the closest they get to saying “I really like you.”

This morning, when the two kids tumbled into my bed, I told them how special it was to be a loved child. How lucky to be able to run down the hallway and flop into our bed with no previous appointment, no money exchanged, to tuck themselves into the envelopes of our bodies. To know that at any time of day they are wanted and welcomed. They laughed, because what other reality is there? and then asked for breakfast.

There’s snow in the forecast. And venison sausage. And garden carrots, dug and stored. And a suspect holiday in which Col is dressing up as mad scientist and Rose as his pet bat. And even more love flung at children who are both the receivers and givers of the gift of always being wanted and welcome.

Reach Rachel Turiel at sanjuandrive@frontier.net.Visit her blog, 6512 and growing, on raising children, chickens and other messy, rewarding endeavors at 6,512 feet.