AUTUMN IS HERE!

The latter half of this summer has been hot and dry…

as you can tell by the bare-bones look of the riffle in front,

and looking upstream, of the cottage.

Normally, there'd be enough water coming down

between the rocks for a good canoeist to negotiate

from top to bottom and never drag or bump a single stone.

Let the seasonal celebration begin! Autumn is here and summer has gone on a nine-month hiatus. Hooray!

Yeah, yeah, I hear those mutterings from you astronomical nitpickers with framed star charts on the wall and a Celestron Edge 1400 HD as the optical centerpiece of your backyard observatory. I do know the seasonal switch isn't technically official until that precise moment when the sun crosses the celestial equator, which occurs at 11:09 p.m. EDT. But I say one should never become such a stickler for details that you mess up a good excuse for a party…and who wants to have a FALL IS HERE fête after dark? Nope, you gotta give a little slack occasionally. Autumn does arrive today. Let's not get bogged down by the practically trivial.

Okay, now that we've gotten that out of the way…

Earlier this morning, camera in hand, I took a quick saunter around the cottage and along the riverbank. I thought I'd share a few quick snaps.

Autumn may begin with an astronomical event…

but visual autumn begins with a single colored leaf.

Thanks entirely to morning sunlight rather than colored leaves,

the Cottage Pool appears decidedly autumnish—don't you think?

Of course a well-dressed finch simply has to pick up the theme.

Same pool, moments later, different angle—

but that single sycamore leaf says change is afoot.

Morning light through a box elder leaf,

which shows a bit of foretelling rust.

A great blue heron caught in the act of fishing near the deck.

Purple coneflower seed heads. Time to collect them, pull them

apart, allow the seeds to dry indoors for a few days—

then bag half for spring potted starts and winter sow the rest in a new bed.

Bankside looking upstream.

"No, you don't see me…I'm hidden, just a knot on the limb

and most definitely not a squirrel. Really!"

A new plant I was recently given which which shall remain nameless,

because I've forgotten what it's called.

———————

SECOND HELPING

The sky is a blanket of pale gray clouds. After two days of brilliant blue, the overcast seems darker than it is, a pall slipped over the landscape. And yet…this shadowless veil has the counter-intuitive effect of making colors richer, more saturated, as if the gain had been increased by giving the color-intensity knob a hefty clockwise crank.

As is my normal routine, I began the morning well before daylight—sitting at my desk with a mug of steaming coffee, peering into the thick blackness beyond the study window and waiting for the river to slowly appear like a ghostly vein below the sub-dermal layer of darkness. This will be the last week of Daylight Savings Time. Good riddance! Enough with governmental meddling! Allow the time to be what it is, what feels "natural."

Sure, I understand this system of measurement is something devised by man, invented for our comfort and convenience. Night and day divided into twenty-four one-hour increments, themselves each divided into sixty minutes, with another sub-division of minutes into sixty seconds. One turn of the earth all chopped up into neat little pieces. As if such a formal imposition might really matter.

The relationship seems more natural to me if the pattern of light and dark is allowed to mirror the rhythm of the seasons as I first encountered them. The sudden relocation of dusk and dawn when Daylight Savings Time takes over in the spring, and departs in the fall, does nothing for me except muck up my prototype rhythm of season and time so deeply ingrained from childhood. Back then, October daylight arrived an hour earlier; so did dusk. That still feels natural to me. So I say again…good riddance!

Unfortunately, I don't think I can blame the behavior of my adopted ducks on time-change. Whatever form of alarm clock ducks employ for their morning wake-up, it is simply set to early. As in too-dark-to-see early. Not that darkness hampers their feeding capabilities. Maybe ducks have built in thermal imaging…or are hiding little pairs of night-vision goggles under their wings. Whatever. When they decide it's time for breakfast—which happened about 6:21 EDST this morning—they paddle up from their usual night berth a hundred yards downstream, dock themselves just off my riverbank steps and within easy corn-tossing range of the front deck, and quack loud enough to wake the dead…or any sleeping neighbors for blocks around.

This is not, I must reemphasize, a standard mild-mannered park-pond duck quack. We're talking QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! Part Canada goose, part trumpeter swan, with bit of air-horn from those clown cars at the circus. Loud. Obnoxious. Bleating. Demanding. FEED US! FEED US! FEED US!

Naturally, I dash out and sling them their measure of cracked corn forthwith, before anyone starts shooting. A slave to ducks. What an ignominious position for a dignified nature scribbler, and proof once again that no good deed goes unpunished…

Long after my panhandling waterfowl have breakfasted, morning arrives—not via light flooding over the eastern horizon, but by light which simply sneaks in here, there, and everywhere, like mildew in a closet, until there comes a moment when you realize you can see shape and color. I pluck the camera from the desk and step outside, careful to remain hidden from the ducks' view.

The river is beautiful in the soft light—water the color of dark jade, bankside vegetation a study in gold and orange, tan and russet, yellow, green, and some small plant upstream that shows a dark shade of ox-blood Cabernet. A lone turkey vulture wings slowly overhead.

I love days such as this, love their cloistered feel, love the way some hues are muted and others seem to glow as if lit by an inner light. Life is so wondrous, so lovely…so precious. No day should ever be wasted.

"Com'on, ducks," I said, loud enough so's the paddling pair on the nearby pool could hear my voice. I stepped out from behind the tree and headed toward the corn bin. "Com'on and have a second helping!"

SUNDAY SAD

The river this morning…

It is chilly along the river today—just now, a few minutes past noon, making it above fifty degrees. The weatherman claims we'll mange sixty, but I'm not convinced given his recent track record. At least it is not raining, as it has been for the past few days.

Yesterday a friend came by in and we went out for a couple of hours on a photo excursion. The temperature had been dropping all morning, plus there was intermittent drizzle, and when he got here after a morning at the office, he was already cold, having not left home before his half-day's work with sufficient outerwear. I loaned him an extra insulated field coat and even with that, he never quite got thawed out.

But we made some nice photos, I think—in spite of the cold, damp, dimness.

Today there's sun…so maybe the weatherman's prediction will prove true after all. I hope so. But if not, there's a nice fire crackling on the hearth, plus I've just taken a couple of loaves of pumpkin-spiced carrot and walnut bread from the oven. In a few minutes I'll cut a few slices from one of the still-warm loaves, top with a bit of the cream cheese maple-syrup, cinnamon spread I mixed up last evening for a different bread we had with our late supper, and then I'll sit before the fire awhile with a cup of coffee and my bread.

The yard is full of leaves, most of which fell on Friday during the rain and wind. Eventually they'll get raked into narrow rows and gone over a few passes with the lawnmower. Then, mixed with a bit of topsoil, I'll deploy the excellent mulch around plants and beds.

Some leaves still remain, and they're heartbreakingly beautiful lit by the strong sunlight. The river pours along like molten jade. It is a good day here…or it would be except that yesterday morning a man I knew and liked died suddenly. He'd gone into the laundry room to retrieve some towels from the dryer. His wife heard him fall. He was probably gone when he hit the floor.

Too young to die, being in his fifties. Which, of course, is not true. Young or old, right or poor. Such details are meaningless. We never know when and where death will find us. But it always does, and we always must go.

Walt was a good and decent man. Kind, generous, thoughtful. This world would be a far better place if there were more like him around. Men who think of others before themselves. Men who greet you with a word and smile. Alas, there's now one fewer…

I usually try and answer all post comments on the day they're received. Yesterday I failed, and I apologize. But after my photographer friend left, and the night closed in, I simply couldn't write. I hope that's okay, hope you understand, will overlook and forgive my lapse.

Last night all I could do was sit quietly before the fire….

LOOKING FOR GOLD

I've long had a thing for yellow maples. This love affair began with big maple which stood by the back gate of a house where I used to live. A beautifully shaped tree, about 35-feet tall with a rounded crown—dense limbed, and more spread out than those of a typical maple. Every October that maple decked out in the most intensely yellow-gold leaves of any tree I've ever seen.

A few days after it colored up, there'd be a solid carpet of those magnificent leaves on the ground, though the bulk of its bright leaf-treasure still remained up in the tree. I can't begin to tell you how much I looked forward to this precise autumn moment—how I longed for those maple leaves to turn yellow-gold and begin to fall.

More than simple desire or anticipation, it was a yearning, an ache which never really left my psyche, but simply lay dormant from winter through spring, stirring like a waking beast sometime in mid-summer when heat smothered the land and cicadas ratcheted incessantly. The trigger was likely some internal awareness that time was indeed on the move, that in spite of current appearances, a point now not too unthinkably distant down the road would be reached; the seasons would turn again…and it would then be autumn and time for the maple by the gate to turn yellow-gold.

From that instant of realization onward I could scarcely contain my impatience.

When the joyous day finally did arrive—when the gate-maple's leaves turned brilliant yellow-gold with a good scattering on the ground—that magical conjunction meant I could now participate in an event of singular, soul-cleansing magnificence.

I would make my way under the tree, quietly, reverently…and simply stand.

A yellow-gold carpet lay at my feet and covered the ground all about. A yellow-gold domed ceiling began just above my head and extended, layer-upon-layer, blotting out sky and sun. Moreover, many sweeping branches connected high and low with a yellow-gold curtain.

The effect was of being suspended in a yellow-gold world—bathed, immersed, drenched in this single vibrating color. Every dark granule was instantly swept from the deepest recesses of my heart. I was transported, filled with what I can only describe as a holy illumination…as if God had momentarily opened Heaven's door and allowed a rapturous light to stream forth.

Regardless of whether it was cloudy or sunny—morning, midday, or late-afternoon—the world beneath that maple was always glowing. A light which you could feel, which poured over and around and into your being…a light which felt alive.

How do you explain such a thing? To tell others of this is to expose yourself to certain ridicule. And yet it is true. Crazy as it sounds…true.

Since moving away from the house with that wonderful maple by the gate, I've been searching for another tree to take its place. We're talking a couple of decades. If I had the time, I'd try to plant and grow one here beside the river—except logic and the actuarial tables says that's not an option. So the best I can do is take to the woods and explore, amble along various forest trails each October and hope.

And sometimes I do come close to finding another yellow-gold tree that shines all the way into my heart. A maple that uplifts me whenever I stand beneath its October-clad branches. Trees along the trail where I made the photos for this post seemed promising. So did several other individual maples I admired and photographed recently. Close, but not quite imbued with that ability to transform me with their light.

Yet I'm not discouraged in my search. Some day I'll find my elusive maple. For I know with a faith founded on fact that such trees do indeed exist. I sincerely believe that somewhere out there, there's a yellow-gold maple, waiting…just for me.

COLOR STILL SLOW

There's a pond up the road from here—an elongated bit of water, curved on one end into a shape resembling a fish hook. The "hook"segment is quite narrow, and surround by scrub woods. There are trees also growing right down to the water along one side of the pond's "shank" portion—though the opposite shore is mucky and shallow, with a wide band that can be either wet or dry, depending on recent rains; beyond this marshy flat, a low, wooded hill rises.

The pond doesn't see many visitors. It's a fair walk in from the road and there's no easy, distinct path. You have to know the pond is there and want to go; most folks don't. Which suits me just fine. I like the forsaken places.

Such neglect pleases the various waterfowl, too—the ducks and geese who regularly raise young here in the spring, and like to feed and loaf here the remainder of the year…at least when the water is open. Herons stalk the shallows. I've see the occasional kingfisher, and once, more than a decade ago, an osprey. And of course there's also the usual Ohio compliment of muskrats, mink, turtles, snakes, frogs, dragonflies, and birds of all sorts, from waders to warblers to woodpeckers. Whitetail deer, as well. And coyotes, raccoons, and possums, seeing as how we're making a list. But I, and maybe one or two like-minded human ramblers, are probably the rarest critters to amble the pond's parameter.

Soon after breakfast, I stole a few minutes from pressing work to make a quick check on the pond. The morning was dark and damp, 38F chilly degrees. The surrounding color wasn't as advanced as I'd expected—though another few days will doubtless make a big difference. When I visited a week ago the landscape was still practically all green.

For whatever reason there wasn't much in the way of wildlife to be seen. At least not by me today. No ducks or geese on the water, or great blue herons to squawk and startle from their fishing. Just a swath of dark water, a yellow-gold hillside, and an October sky the color of old pewter.

I did manage a few quick shots. I'm sure I could have found a lot of other things if I hadn't been so rushed. Making photos, like a lot of good and pleasurable things in life, is mostly a matter of persistence and patience. I can generally muster both. Unfortunately for me this morning, I just didn't have time.

SPLENDID CLUTTER

(Please double click.)

I like clutter…at least a bit of it, anyway.

Pristine rooms makes me nervous. Chairs and couch just so. Magazines squared in a stack on the table. Matching lamps and throw pillows. Art hung at prescribed gallery level on the walls, placed to "come off" an object such as a vase stand and centered to the millimeter. The effect is like a photo set for an interior design publication—too orderly to be comfortable, so overly-organized that relaxation is impossible.

Do real people actually live in such dehumanized, sanitized spaces? Or is this simply a dead giveaway that any inhabitants are aliens?

Rest assured—you'll have no such worries when you visit me. Oh, the place is clean. And I have couches and chairs and tables. The throw pillows match, but only because they came with the couch—though I have a couple more with a Navajo motif which my daughter made, plus one with a moose. Two of the lamps match and two don't. There's some art on the wall, paintings and prints I like, and because I have lots of walls there's lots of art…and more to come, too, when I finally dig it out from boxes in closets and attic. Some of things you'll see will be personal, unique, quirky. Books—well, there are always stacks of books around, and books on the shelves. And CDs by the hundreds in baskets. And did I mention stuff? What sort of stuff? Well, stuff, as in stuff! Rocks and pieces of driftwood and a railroad spike from a old ghost-town tunnel (a supposedly haunted tunnel, by the way.) Also a china cabinet with it's own stuff inside. Candles and candle holders on mantles and ledges and tables and atop the big chest of drawers by the front door. Several of Moon's chew toys scattered about the floor. And I must not overlook my Steinway piano.

I'm probably forgetting things, too. Even though this is a big room we're talking about, there are a lot of things in it…and it looks lived in and reflects the lives and interest of those who live here. And, yes indeed, it is always a bit cluttered. But you can come in, sit before the fire, kick back, sprawl if you're inclined, have a glass of something and a snack to nibble on while we talk.

The charitable might call such an overall style "eclectic." A little of this, a bit of that—yet all somehow working in a cohesive manner and mix. Homey , pleasant, cozy, friendly, comfortable.

If we've built the hearthfire a bit too ambitiously, or it's unseasonably warm outside, we'll open the sliding door and you'll be able to hear the river whispering along, smell the scent of autumn's damp leaves, and perhaps hear a few birds or insects. This river is, as you probably know, literally within spitting distance of the cottage. (Yes, you can if you wish…though mind the swirling air currents.) And I ought to warn you there's a slight chance the open door will provide egress for a bug or arachnid or—if recent past experience is a reliable indicator—possibly a salamander. Moon will deter the mice and raccoons.

The Anti-Clutter League would be appalled! Martha Stewart might cancel my subscription—though I suspect Ms. Martha is a bit more down-to-earth than we give her credit for; any rich lady/businesswoman who takes a probably undeserved prison sentence over unseemly whining and endless legal shenanigans is, in my book, practical, courageous, and classy. At any rate, a bit of clutter in a home is a good thing.

And in may particular case, this good things extends out the doors and up the drive. The river deck is a bit cluttered, and the side deck, too. So is the yard. There are leaves down, though not yet many; the grass could probably use a final cutting; the marigolds need deadheading. But, hey—this is autumn and autumn is nature's season of clutter. Which is probably why I like it so much; autumn fits my style…a bit frayed and tattered, too much stuff in too little space—but lovely and endearing in its disarray.

A comfortable place to ramble the hours away. Autumn's splendid clutter!

AUTUMN'S FIRST FULL DAY

Today is our first full dose of autumn. It has been cloudy and dim all day, even a bit on the foggy side this morning. Looking for all the world like it might rain any minute…though not so much as a sprinkle has fallen thus far. Still the grass is damp, as are the stones around the cottage and the boards of the deck which overlooks the river. Leaves on the sycamore gleam with moisture. Except for all the the green trees and grass, it might visually fool you into equating things with a dreary day in early winter

Which probably explains why, upon his first glance outside, a certain fellow momentarily thought of putting together a pot of jalapeno-laced chili on the stove, and later stirring up a pone of spicy Tex-Mex cornbread. Of course, when our astute fellow stepped onto his deck and found the temperature to be a muggy 79-degrees, he wisely reconsidered his meal plans.

Birds are busy at the feeders—chickadees, titmice, lots of goldfinches, a few house finches, sparrows, a blue jay, cardinals (yes, that near-bald bird is growing feathers) and a half-dozen others. Herds of doves have been marching to and fro across the yard. The hummingbirds are squabbling like tired-out six-year-olds at recess. I keep expecting them to disappear for their wintering grounds any day now…but so far at least four or five continue hanging around. I was awakened at dawn by a pair of Carolina wrens trying to outsing one another.

I did have a fat fox squirrel in the side yard near the cottage this morning, the first I've ever seen on this side of the river. Squirrels are strict segregationists hereabouts—grays on this side of the stream, fox squirrels on the island across from the cottage. The twain does not intermix.

There are also a few pine or red squirrels zooming around over here from time to time, and I sometimes also see them on the island. I would claim these pineys were perhaps trying to bring peace to the warring tribes of fox and gray…except if you know anything about red squirrels, you know they're pint-sized troublemakers and equal opportunity provocateurs.

Squirrels can swim well enough if they want to to make it across the channel between the island and this shore. Too, given the river's current low-water state, an agile fox squirrel could probably hop and leap from rock-to-rock across the riffle and never get his paws wet. But I expect this heretofore unprecedented visit came about because of the tree which fell across the river a month or so back [here] and created a made-to-order fox squirrel bridge. That's the direction he headed when Moon the dog startled him with her through-the-window-screen barks.

All in all, today didn't appear much different than yesterday, or the day before; and tomorrow is apt to look pretty much the same. But it feels different somehow, though maybe that's mostly the power of suggestion and a bit of wishful thinking. Still, a view up the river sees a less vibrant green, a bit of yellowing, a few small patches of tan in the tops of the sycamores, and even a curl of crimson woodbine among the shadows.

Autumn is here in name, and it's beginning to arrive in fact. The times they are a'changin'.

AUTUMN AND OATMEAL COOKIES

There’s something about a cold November day that whispers to my inner child how this would a perfect occasion for baking oatmeal cookies. Not that there’s actually a bad day for oatmeal cookie baking, mind you. But you know what I mean.…certain foods seem particularly well suited to particular times. Never one to stand in the way of gastronomical/seasonal destiny, I complied. To the tune of several dozen cookies, made with old-fashioned rolled oats, brown sugar, butter and vegetable shortening, baking soda, salt, vanilla, a dash of cinnamon, and unbleached flour. I figured if the food police came around, I’d buy them off with a really good cookie. Between shuffling batches of cookies in and out of the oven, I kept an eye outdoors—at the river, the mallards feeding in the riffle, a red-tailed hawk loafing in one of the big sycamores on the island across from the cottage, at birds visiting the feeder and squirrels scrabbling through the leaves and chasing about in the yard. When the final batch of cookies was done and set out to cool, I poured a glass of real cider from the orchard up the road, and sat at the table by window in the front room, where I ate more oatmeal cookies than I care to admit, and watched the sun slip behind the low hill to the west across the river. Late-autumn, it seems to me, is a necessary interregnum between that first half of the season—which can almost seem like an extension of late-summer except with colored leaves—and genuine winter, when stars hover close and trees creak and pop with the deep cold. The last half of November helps us begin to get in the mood for things ahead. We humans need this—or at least I do. Maybe it keeps my circadian rhythm in proper alignment or something. Or maybe it just gives me time hunker low and brace for winter. Whatever, I’ve come to think of it the same way I do any journey—that the in-between part is at least half the fun. Which is also why I’d rather drive to, say, Florida, than fly. Sure, the airlines do it quicker—a few hours for them versus twelve hours for me…and that’s if I hustle and don’t stop much along the way; or two days if I can take the time to dawdle a bit. But either way, by driving I get the sense of going somewhere, of the distance covered and the way the landscape changes. By contrast there’s a sort of unreality when I step into a jetliner in Ohio and step out in Florida a couple of hours later. I feel disconnected—not jet lagged—but missing the miles of landscape separating me from where I now stand and where I came from. Maybe a little robbed, too, that I didn’t get to see and touch and smell and hear it—if only from an opened window as I tooled down the highway. That’s how I feel about these days of late-November—a sense of seasonal journey to be quietly enjoyed. And best savored with a handful of fresh-baked oatmeal cookies!

LOSING THE LIGHT...

Even though it has been more than a week since we made the switch from Daylight Savings Time back to Eastern Daylight Time, I’m still not used to the early twilights. It seems like I have lunch, do a bit of work, and suddenly it’s getting dark! Of course, as time’s great pendulum completes it’s swing from equinox to solstice, we do lose an eventual total of a bit over three hours of light per day. Almost half this daylight loss occurred in October alone; and another full hour will be lost in November. Nevertheless, oncoming dusk always catches me unprepared. As I write this, at a couple minutes past 5:00 p.m., it is already almost too dark to see across the river. Just a minute or two ago I looked up from the keyboard and watched a great blue heron sail in for a landing in the shallows downstream from the cottage. It’s one of the big bird’s favorite fishing spots whenever the water is low, as it has been hereabouts for weeks. But now I have to strain to see the stalking heron through the rapidly dimming light…and in another minute or two, hampered by the gathering gloom, I won’t be able to make out the pale-gray shape at all. The leaves come down and we fiddle with the clocks. Meanwhile, autumn treks steadily onward along its journey to winter, while our days abruptly seem shorter and darker—as if the turning of the season precipitated a headlong rush into darkness.

THE OTHER AUTUMN

Today is really a good example of the “other autumn,” which is how I’ve come to think about the season’s second half. When someone says the word “autumn” we mentally conjure up an image straight off October’s calendar, of multicolored leaves and bright blue skies. In fact, there's an old proverb, a sort of palindrome, that says, 'fall leaves after leaves fall.' This, of course, ignores the truth by overlooking that autumn officially begins the last part of September and continues until the winter solstice in late December. Autumn is more more enduring than a few weeks of patchwork leaves. The season in its entirety must be given it's due. Looking out the window, I now see a yard carpeted in rather monotone brown leaves. Too, the sky is thick with woolly clouds as gray as old socks. The river runs dark and sullen. Yet this too is a face of autumn. Less picturesque, perhaps, but no less a part of the season. It’s also cold out—currently 30 degrees, with the day’s high predicted in the low-40s. Last night, about 9:30, I heard an odd sound of something rattling against the windows. It didn’t quite sound like wind-blown leaves, and I thought it was too cold for rain. Curious, I got up, looked out, and in the yellowish porch light saw sleet pellets scattered across the front deck. Our first wintry intimation. Pretty much on schedule, too; a November foretaste of things to come. During the past week, by contrast, we enjoyed a spell of Indian Summer—days in the 70s, cloudless skies the color of just-starting-to-fade denim. I spent much of my time gathering wood for next year’s fires—loading log chunks into the wheelbarrow from a neighbor’s two huge hackberries which toppled several weeks ago as aftermath winds from Hurricane Ike roared through the area. One of the big trees landed partially across the top of his garage, so he had to wait for the busy tree trimmers sent by his insurance company to clear and cut them. I’ve now hauled all the sections I can heave into the wheelbarrow. Those remaining are simply too heavy, being two feet long and thirty inches and more in diameter. More than my bad back can handle. I may be able to roll a few more of these crossections to my woodpile, seeing as how we’re only talking a few hundred feet, and most of that at least slightly downhill. Otherwise, these enormous rounds will have to wait until I can scare up ample help or else rent a power splitter. In the meantime, I have plenty of wood splitting with maul, axe, and wedge to keep me busy. As a rough estimate, I’d say I have perhaps four or five cords, of which, maybe two-thirds will require at least one split. Lots of work…but I look at it as money—and heat—in the bank.