A BIT OF SEASONAL COLOR

There's always a bit of color to be found…

Even if autumn is only a few days old, according to the calendar, and arrived on a day which hit an unseasonably warm 82 degrees.

Even if, once the seasonal changeover was complete, it clouded up and cooled off almost immediately, as if on cue, began sprinkling a day after that, and continued sprinkling, off and on, for the next three days.

Even if it was still sprinkling when I woke up at 4:37 a.m. this morning, and through the opened bedroom window, could hear water pattering from the eaves as well as the steady, underlying hum of the river finding it way over and around rocks in the riffle a hundred feet beyond.

No doubt a bit of color could certainly be found…rain or not.

So I lay in bed until my usual getting-up time, listening to sounds of rain and river—then arose, made coffee and breakfast, and watched as a late and reluctant dawn eventually did its best to shed some light on the situation. Moon the dog went to the door and nose-bumped the small set of wind chimes which hang from the knob—her way of signaling to be let outside. I opened the door for her, took a moment to exchange coffee cup for a camera, and followed.

It was still sprinkling. Yet in spite of recent rains, the river was clear and low. The ducks were in the pool upstream from the cottage, heads underwater, tails pointed toward the thick, gray sky. What's a little rain to a duck? In the sycamores on the nearby island, I could see dark shapes amid the wet green leaves; the turkey vultures were still huddled on their roost, waiting for the rain to cease before flying off in search of the day's first meal.

Buzzards aren't big on rain…and neither is Moon the dog. She'll stay out in anything short of a downpour long enough to do whatever has to be done, but not a moment longer. Even if the rain is light. I'd have to be ready to towel her off and wipe her muddy paws if I didn't want a mess in the house. So if I wanted to find a quick fix of autumnal color, I had to hurry.

My first quick tour along the bank revealed nothing. The Virginia creeper was still green. A few leaves on the sycamores were brown, while only a handful on the box elder were an uninspiring rusty yellow. Not what I was looking for.

Moon had completed her duties. Now, head lowered, tail down, and ears stuck out, she was heading for the open front door. I whistled at her and she paused momentarily in her suffering to fix me with a withering look, which said…I know what you're trying to do and I'm not hanging around.

I threatened her. "Don't you dare step inside until I've cleaned you off."

She turned disdainfully and continued walking—but paused on the deck, rump aimed my way, having seemingly developed a sudden interest in staring at the river. A dog's way of saying…I'll give you a couple of minutes and stand here under the overhang out of the rain—but keep in mind the deck is wet, I can't sit down, and I'm not going to wait forever.

I hurriedly checked along the edge of the graveled drive. Ahh-h-h, just what I was looking for, what I knew had to be out here somewhere close—that bit of seasonal color. I made a quick photo. Then I looked up. Moon was nowhere to be seen .

Intimidation can only get you so far with a dog who knows you.

MIDNIGHT…

Midnight, or nearly so. I’ve been dozing in front of the TV for the last half hour. Must have been the full day of yard work on my winter-softened body. Every muscle aches; my joints feel rusted and inoperable, stiff, swollen. Who would have thought shoveling, hauling, and spreading a dozen wheelbarrow loads of topsoil and perhaps twice that many of mulch would have wrecked me to such an extent? Not only am I no longer the man I used to be…I’m beginning to doubt I ever was. In less than a week I’ll have another birthday. Tonight, I feel about a decade older already. I obviously need to go to bed, which presents the problem of standing up. Two attempts and a couple of pitiful groans later, I’m vertical…more or less. I switch off the television. Just pushing the remote button hurts. As the room is suddenly plunged into darkness, I hear Moon the dog hop off her snoozing spot on the end of the other couch facing the fireplace. Time to take her out for her final constitutional—providing I can shuffle to the door. The dog and I step outside, onto the side deck. Moon makes a quick snuffle-check under the end of the deck for any errant raccoon or possum that might be hiding there, then trots off into the darkness to complete her doggy rounds. The air temperature can’t be more than a degree or two above fifty—if that; I’m wearing shorts and a tee shirt, so I quickly come fully awake. There’s a cloistered feel to the night, due in part to the light cloud cover which has blotted out all stars and dimmed the nearly full moon to less than half power—its wane light smeared and strangely colored as it slips through the topmost branches of the greening sycamores. Sound fills the darkness…the reemerged voice of the river, missing these last few days because of the high water. In the scant light I can just make out the whiteness of broken water above the riffle. The actual riffle is still a foot or two underwater—but the new hydraulics of water hitting stone is pushing waves to the surface. It is these waves, playing out upon the current, that fill the night with their muted roar. A friendly sound to a riverman…the sound that says my stream is returning to normal. I step off the deck and walk across the yard, trying to remember where I dug those new planting beds so’s I don’t fall into one like a stumbling drunk. The clouds have now completely obscured the moon. There’s a bench on top of the little hillock at the edge of the property, and for just a minute I take a seat—enjoying the cool solitude, the sound of the river, and the feeling I get just looking at the shadowy bulk of the cottage. Somewhere not too far upstream a great horned owl hoots, which sends an involuntary shiver down my spine…though maybe it is just the cold air on my underclad body. Moon the dog comes snuffling over, possibly wondering what I’m doing sitting up here in the May darkness. I pat her head. In dog years she’s about the age I feel. Okay, enough of these self-pitying, maudlin thoughts. I hoist myself up, stifling the urge to groan, and head back to the cottage. I think we’ll both feel better after a good night’s rest.

RAIN DAY, REST DAY?

It’s raining today along the river. Not in downpours, just little spring showers which seem to lack enthusiasm. Good for the grass and plants, but not enough to get a fellow wet if, say, I decided to make a quick check of the mailbox up the hill. Not enough to discourage a robin from loudly singing his sweet swinging melody that’s so indicative of the season. Still, the day is dark and there’s a steady, slow drip along the eaves. And inconsequential as the rain is, there’s enough that Moon the dog, who detests getting wet, will—after ringing her chimes which signals a desire to go outside—pause under the sheltered portion of the deck and cast displeased looks back my way, because she believes that all dog-wetting rain is ultimately my fault. I’d hoped to work on my backdoor patio today—or at least on the planting bed which is the first element in the patio’s layout. Yesterday I drove a few miles north to a building supply store and picked up a couple of 4x6-inch pressure-treated timbers, each 16 feet in length. I’ll use these—along with shorter pieces of 4x6 which I had on hand already—to outline a 16x3-foot planting bed along one-half the rear wall of the cottage. I’ll then fill in the 8-inch deep box with a mix of flower seeds—and with luck, ought to have a nice bed of color by early summer. That had been the day’s plan—get the timbers down, leveled, filled with dirt and planted with seed. But unless the weather clears up and things dry out at least a bit, I’ll have to scrap the notion until tomorrow, when partially-sunny skies are predicted. Yesterday, when I was doing the bed’s preliminary digging, I realized how weak and soft I’d become over the winter. Muscles which hadn’t seen serious physical labor since late last fall are today stiff and sore. Plus my storehouse of stamina is noticeably depleted. Age plays a part, of course; each passing year puts a bit more wear and tear on our bodies, demands we draw deeper from our energy reserves. In youth and early middle-age, I spent this energy without giving it a second thought, as if it were boundless—which, in a way, it was. An overnight’s rest or even a meal would replenish any loss. Nowadays, there isn’t as much in the tank to start with and refills take longer and longer. Still, I believe the old saw that “people don’t wear out…they rust out,” to be the greater truth of the matter. I’ve seen too many 70- and 80-year olds bouncing around like the Energizer Bunny to fool myself otherwise. Nope, it’s too easy to spend the winter in semi-hibernation, like a bear in the den. The fire is warm, the house cozy, there are books and music and cable TV and the internet to keep us busy. Observation can take the place of participation when it comes to outdoor activities. Shopping at the mall, regular trips to the grocery store, and running errands may keep us occupied—but it doesn’t keep us limber and strong, energetic and healthy. Our job, unless it involves physical labor, doesn’t help much, either…and in my case, not at all. There’s no workout in poking at a keyboard for a few hours. It’s also why, after buying the timbers, loading them in the pickup, and hauling them home—I called it quits for the day, even though there was an hour or so of daylight remaining. Until my decrepit body gets back up to snuff (more or less…I’m not expecting miracles) I expect most of these initial workdays will be necessarily foreshortened. Quitting early has its rewards, however—at least it did yesterday. The day’s ending was warm and the rocking chair on the side deck offered comfortable embrace—a pleasant appeasement where I could sip a drink and watch the sun sink ever lower in the west. A woodpecker hammered on a rotting box elder limb. Finches chattered from the feeders. A pair of mallards came hustling up the river, flying low and fast, only a yard or so above the surface but making no attempt to land; the drake’s green head and neck shimmered like an emerald in the last of the waning light. There was a bit of a chill in the air, toward the end, and I slipped on a fleece pullover. Such a simple act, so everyday…and yet it always feels good, a small, sensual gratification. So many of life’s rewards are found in the basics. A drink when you’re thirsty. Food when you’re hungry. The view of a glowing sunset. Birdsong. A comfortable rocker. Spring’s sweet breath. A warm sweater. That was yesterday; today there’s rain. But even now, the sky appears to be growing incrementally lighter. And the eaves are no longer dripping. Is the rain over? Will I be able to get my flower bed prepared? Maybe…maybe not. Nevertheless, I intend to take a walk, even if I have to do so in the rain. Moon will come along, excited with all the new sights and smells. In her book, going for a walk in a light rain trumps remaining behind and staying dry—it doesn't mitigate my guilt in the matter. Some things never change.