It has been a mistake, maybe, to spend a fall Saturday listening to old favorite songs. Autumn seems to invite melancholy, whether deserved or not. Even the happy songs had a sad edge today. And I ran across Rachel Field's "Something Told the Wild Geese" this morning. Why does that poem always make me sad? The last lines make me shiver.
If seasons have personalities, autumn is bi-polar. Bright colors from maples dressed for a final party contrast with the forlorn garden, spent from the bright promise of spring and relegated to sad corn stalks and a few dried pods of forgotten peas overlooked by tired gardeners. It’s the time to reflect on success and failures of the growing season – next year I’m going to resist so many pepper plants and I’m never planting that variety of beans again. More peas and less squash and forget that new variety of tomato. The old reliables are better.
Walnuts fall with loud thuds, making it dangerous to walk in the backyard. If you are not hit in the head by a falling missile, you might accidentally find yourself roller skating on them after they land. This is an especially good year for the tree in my backyard. Every day, I gather a bucket or two of nuts to dump in the lane going to the barn, our time worn method of hulling walnuts. In past years, there was so much traffic going in and out of the barn lot that the job was quickly finished, but now traffic is sparse, and I have to run back and forth with the Kubota to hull the walnuts. I still pour them out on top of the old cistern where hundreds of thousands of nuts have been pounded with rocks to get at the meats. Every time I do it, I understand why black walnuts are so expensive at the stores! We used to have more trees, and we used to pick up and sell several hundred pounds of walnuts every year at the local co-op, where they hulled them with a big machine and paid us per pound for the nuts left behind. Extra money was always nice for the holidays.
Fields of stubble are all that is left of bright rows of corn, the golden harvest on its way to giant grain bins. In a good year, acres of grain mean a good year for the farmer, a harvest that fulfills the promise of the spring. For farmers around here, an unseasonal rise in the river means a slim crop this year, at least from the fickle bottom land. Mother nature, as an apology for the flood, has tried to compensate with a bumper hay crop, thanks to a wet spring and summer.
The crisp air is a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of summer, but the breeze through the drying leaves whispers of a frost to come. Sitting on the porch after dark requires long sleeves and reminds me that it’s time to think about packing away shorts and sleeveless shirts and bringing out sweaters and sweatpants and flannel sheets. Wasn’t it just last week that I put all that away?
Mornings are quieter now; the fog muffles the sounds. The birds have lost their enthusiasm for the dawn and the hummingbirds have heard rumors of winter and left for warmer places. The shorter days urge the wild geese to hurry south. Is there a sound that tugs at your heart more than their plaintive cry? Marigolds stubbornly open their bright faces to the sun, but the four-o’clocks have pretty much given up. A few brave roses hang on, reminding us that spring will come again.
Bittersweet memories flood the brain, thoughts of the bright beginning of the school year and the excitement of football, marching bands and bonfires. Halloween fun and the mysterious journey around the neighborhood where every shadow might be a ghost or vampire, but surely is only another imposter, ready to shout “trick or treat” in anticipation of candy. My small town is a Halloween expert – with a parade and plenty of neighborhoods where neighbors compete to see who can decorate best and serve the most treats for small spooks. My memories of trick or treat are mixed at best. In the days of those plastic masks that were all that was available, a little nearsighted girl who wore glasses had the choice of leaving off the glasses or the mask. For some reason, it never occurred to me to dress up as something that didn’t require a mask, so I was left to stumble through the neighborhood, dependent on friends to warn me of unseen obstacles. Suffice it to say, I spent a lot of time falling in ditches and stumbling over yard decorations. But the memories are still bright points of my childhood, just as nights huddled under a quilt at the football stadium recall my teen years. How do you tell young people to hold on tight to those memories – memories to keep them warm in their autumn and winter years? I’m glad I have mine, even if they sometimes do lead to a melancholy Saturday aftersoon.
Very good, enjoyed reading.
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