The easy breeze of Spring then melded into the glory of Summer, bare feet padding about on powdery country paths, languid days of backyard grills and children calling in the twilight. Slow and mellow have filtered away these days and have emptied themselves so that now the sense is of gathering and of preservation, and into the vessel of fall trickle the days, longer ones, with lifting winds that bare the trees and call up brown pods and falling twigs and scampering squirrels who busy themselves with the harvest, knowing somehow by God’s wisdom that the long Winter approaches. (Our beautiful bushy-tailed squirrels here in Crestline were stricken by a disease some years ago, but slowly are re-establishing themselves and when I see one run across the street or through the woods, I’m happy.)
I walk my gardens, sorry for the hydrangea who did so poorly over the summer and wondering if my watering or my digging habits contributed to its sad state, but exulting in its fall attire. Inside the garage on Jerry’s workbench I snag a set of clippers, return to the garden spot and snip the tired blossoms from the stiff stem, noting that yet some bright green leaves and stem remained. I admire the plant and its struggle to the end, believing it did its best, and unable to escape the niggling thought that I may have contributed to its poor showing. Carefully I lay the dried flowers on the deck step, thinking of the beauty of their form and of their color and considering where I would place them once I carried them inside.
A solitary pear had fallen from its tree. I reached and pulled down another and knew again its spectacular form as I rubbed my hand over its slightly rough skin, so unlike many apples which are smooth and slick. I paused to consider the rich color of my two pears, their brown spots of imperfection, and the twisted and bent shape of one.
The apples are small. Golden Delicious, they are versatile, great for eating out of hand, and wonderful for pies. One year, from our ancient tree I baked tiny pies for several of my neighbors. I know they were luscious for I whipped up a big one for Jerry and me.
In other years, we have had a larger amount of acorns fall from our numerous oak trees here in the area than this year, but I cannot recall when the acorns have been as large as they are now. About a month ago we had heavy winds and as though a giant hand were about, these Goliath acorns were shaken to the ground. For several days a symphony of sorts rang about our wooden decks as these monstrous acorns beat about as a band of drums. One of them struck Jerry so hard that it bruised his hand.
Yet, I like acorns. Every year I gather handsfull of them, and always it strikes me that they look like little people–brown, black and mahogany people who wear straw hats, but who have no eyes nor noses. I find a suitable receptacle and some of them live in my house for several weeks.
Today it is colder than it was yesterday when I rambled about my gardens. Though I haven’t been outside today, I know the winds are rising for the tall trees are whipping, and leaves and acorns are skittering about. Sweet potatoes are baking in the oven, Jerry and Winston are napping, and I’m thinking fall may be my favorite time of the year.
How about you? Do you have a favorite season? What’s going on at your place? 🙂