Late to the Party

 

After a few dreary rainy November days, the sun came out this morning.  As I looked out my front window, I noticed that the big maple had finally decided to join the autumn party.  It was about time – most of the other trees had already shed their gowns of gold and red and yellow, and the oaks had put on cloaks of russet and brown.  This particular tree, which I planted almost 50 years ago in what was then my front yard, had stubbornly remained green.  Maybe it didn’t want to compete with the other trees, maybe it was confused by the weird warm weather lingering way past its time.  When have we ever reached the week before Thanksgiving with roses blooming?  Or without a real killing frost?

I noticed with dismay last week that my spring flowers, those that come back from seed every year, are already up.  My poor, confused bee balm and larkspur are growing thick in the flower beds.  Does this mean they won’t come up and bloom in the spring?  I can’t find any answer to that question.  I don’t even want to think about what might be going on down in my wildflower garden.  Between the drought this summer and the weird warm fall, there is no telling.  But I remind myself that those flowers have survived and thrived for longer than I have been looking at them, and they will be okay.

I’m sure science has an answer to why leaves change color in the fall, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any theory about why the colors are so varied, or why certain trees put on the same color every year.  The dogwoods and the sumac and the sweet gum trees catch fire with deep red.  The maples are either yellow, gold or pinkish gold.  The oaks are dark russet or brown.  And there is usually a progression, with the sumacs leading the dance and the oaks bringing up the rear.  With the changes we are seeing in the climate, who knows how long these rules will  hold true?  Just look at my roses, merrily blooming away on the day before Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving used to be hog-killing weather, when meat could be safely hung in the smokehouse.

What doesn’t change, I trust, is the march of the seasons here in Tennessee.  Even now, as the huge maples have lost most of their leaves, next years bud are there, dormant and waiting for spring.  The caterpillars are sleeping, protected from the cold to come, waiting for their wings next summer.  And hidden in the grass are the acorns and seeds that have the potential to be the next generation of trees to continue the cycle.

The busy harvest season is winding down, most of the crops are in the silos and barns, or on their way to market.  It’s time to pause and be thankful, then time for a rest and waiting time, until the wheels of the season turn again the spring and we begin again.  Happy Thanksgiving!