My mother-in-law used to say when the moon thinned to a sliver and tipped, the rain would fall. That happened just before the equinox, and my farmer friend said the rain was the equinox storm and not to worry, the sun would be back soon.
Some of us in the autumn of our years have been through an equinox storm and are now basking in the return of the sun for awhile longer.
Seasonal signs that fall has arrived come in Crayola colors called: burnt orange, russet, pumpkin and gold. For some of us in gray and silver.
Harvest is in full swing. White tails flag their way through yards and gardens in search of edibles, and bears search for chokecherries and apples. Wild gobblers strut their fan of feathers as they parade for the hens they hope to impress. Territorial squirrels scurry about filling their pantries and scolding trespassers.
Pigskins fly overhead and shouter-padded young men jam into each other fighting for yardage in the mud, much to the delight of old men tending home fires. As evening begin sooner, rakes are laid aside for the evening news and the weather man's predictions. Should the tomatoes be picked tonight? Will thee be frost on the pumpkin in the morning?
As you meander through the twilight of summer, and find your way through the fog that hangs heavy near the river, search for mums,., apple crisps or cinnamon candles and celebrate your days in the sun.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Mellow Septembers
The apples, plucked from the tree and from the squirrels and rabbits, are in a dark room in the basement. We call that room "purgatory" because the items in there have served us well and in time we hope to pass them along to another life with another family. The apples will indeed become heavenly mouthfuls of apple crisps and pies this fall.
The have but one pumpkin on the vine which, in spite of being a potted plant, grew huge leaves that took up too much space on our patio. We are carefully tending to that pumpkin in hopes it might become jack-o-lantern size for our smallest grandchild.
For some of us, the beginning of school means the return to routines. For others it is more poignant. I watch the young mother across the street who peeks from her hiding place behind the drapes to make sure her little boy (the I-can-do-it-myself kid)catches the bus. It is his first year and he leans forward a little seeking the center of gravity for the backpack he proudly carries. I don't see a lunch pail. No Roy Rogers or Lone Ranger metal container to carry the peanut butter and strawberry jam smeared on the smashed slices of Wonder Bread. No air-filled Twinkies to trade for a homemade cupcake. I hear the schools serve breakfast these days so my little neighbor probably takes what I used to pine for - "hot lunch."
It is for sure that September foreshadows changes and even some endings. The sun rises a little later, and a little lower, each morning now. Soon there will be no reason to lift up the shades each morning. Twilight begins to separate families as children are called in from their play sooner and adults have almost completed their seasonal yard work. In my childhood neighborhood the adults devised clever ways to let their children know it was time to come in. Some blew a whistle or rang a bell but my mother turned on the porch light to let me know it was time to come in from the hide-and-go-seek or kick-the-can games. Of course, as I had tried to tell her, if I was hiding I couldn't see the porch light.
On weekends, we stayed out until the last rays of the absent sun filtered light across the prairie and shadows flitting through bare cottonwood trees became monsters waiting for October's Halloween. It was then that we began our search for the biggest pumpkin to snatch from the neighbors garden.
Used to be folks could burn leaves they raked from their yards and that autumn aroma cannot be found in the best of candles. Used to be those same folks lingered at the fire and watch the tiny tendrils of smoke drift into the night sky before they retreated to their winter homes where they began addressing holiday cards that would substitute for the handshakes of September.
The have but one pumpkin on the vine which, in spite of being a potted plant, grew huge leaves that took up too much space on our patio. We are carefully tending to that pumpkin in hopes it might become jack-o-lantern size for our smallest grandchild.
For some of us, the beginning of school means the return to routines. For others it is more poignant. I watch the young mother across the street who peeks from her hiding place behind the drapes to make sure her little boy (the I-can-do-it-myself kid)catches the bus. It is his first year and he leans forward a little seeking the center of gravity for the backpack he proudly carries. I don't see a lunch pail. No Roy Rogers or Lone Ranger metal container to carry the peanut butter and strawberry jam smeared on the smashed slices of Wonder Bread. No air-filled Twinkies to trade for a homemade cupcake. I hear the schools serve breakfast these days so my little neighbor probably takes what I used to pine for - "hot lunch."
It is for sure that September foreshadows changes and even some endings. The sun rises a little later, and a little lower, each morning now. Soon there will be no reason to lift up the shades each morning. Twilight begins to separate families as children are called in from their play sooner and adults have almost completed their seasonal yard work. In my childhood neighborhood the adults devised clever ways to let their children know it was time to come in. Some blew a whistle or rang a bell but my mother turned on the porch light to let me know it was time to come in from the hide-and-go-seek or kick-the-can games. Of course, as I had tried to tell her, if I was hiding I couldn't see the porch light.
On weekends, we stayed out until the last rays of the absent sun filtered light across the prairie and shadows flitting through bare cottonwood trees became monsters waiting for October's Halloween. It was then that we began our search for the biggest pumpkin to snatch from the neighbors garden.
Used to be folks could burn leaves they raked from their yards and that autumn aroma cannot be found in the best of candles. Used to be those same folks lingered at the fire and watch the tiny tendrils of smoke drift into the night sky before they retreated to their winter homes where they began addressing holiday cards that would substitute for the handshakes of September.
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