THE FIRST YEAR

Today marks the first anniversary for Riverdaze. I began that initial blog entry with a confession: "I’ve never been much good at keeping a journal or diary." Today's post is number 219. Now I'm no math whiz, but I believe that's around 60 percent of a possible 365 posts, should I have somehow (ha!) managed one-per-day. Believe it or not, I assure you this is still better than I feared I'd do, given my track record. If nothing else, it certainly goes to show you I was trying to be truthful from the get-go…and might possibly have been prescient.

I had no idea what to expect from a blog. Would anyone read? Would they care? Would I write? Would I care? Would the endeavor be fun? It astonishes me the answer all around appears to be yes! Folks read and apparently enjoy their visit. I write and feel responsible to posting regularly and well. And I enjoy blogging immensely. Who wudda thunk?

My first-ever comment came from Nina, at Nature Remains, a week after putting up that initial post. I was thrilled. She also commented about a post I'd done that day which had a photo of sunlight shining through box-elder keys along the river. I answered her comment—a practice I've tried to maintain with each and every one who takes the time to write.

Another week and more posts passed. Nina commented again—possibly feeling sorry for me, a fellow Ohioan and not-too-distant neighbor. Solitary Walker and Forest Wisdom each left comments. Then KGMom…and she and I had a lively discussion about whether Truman Capote or Tennessee Williams made a certain quote, and whether one of the common names for German Baptists I'd used was spelled correctly. (I believe we were both right. Moreover, we've since enjoyed other discussions, just as lively, on the blog and via email.)

Frankly, I don't know whether I'd have kept this blog up if it hadn't been for these four bloggers who took the time to write. Their early comments really made more of a difference than they might ever imagine—and here and now, please believe I truly thank you each and every one.

As I continued blogging, more folks wrote. Their nice comments helped immensely. I learned about "followers" and "following." I decided I'd set a wish-goal…that a year from the time I'd begun, my list of followers might number a full dozen. Today, the Riverdaze followers count stands at an unbelievable 57! I'm both proud and humbled. Such public support is genuinely appreciated. And I also thank anyone who ever put Riverdaze on their sidebar list of "favorites" on their own blog—or linked something they'd written to a Riverdaze post.

Yet I want to make something perfectly clear…I don't blog to accumulate numbers of readers or followers, or obtain lots of comments. I blog because I've found nothing in life beats sharing. Sharing doubles pleasure and halves pain. Sitting at a banquet table alone is lonely, empty, and a waste; but when you dine at that same laden table with friends, laughing, talking, telling stories, discussing what's on your mind, that same meal becomes a feast, perhaps even a celebration. Life is made to be shared. I'm so very blessed to live in this modest stone cottage beside a lovely sycamore-lined river. I see wonders every day. There's always another adventure, big or small, waiting to be experienced, if we'll only open our eyes and minds and hearts.

Riverdaze exists because I want to share what I can of my blessings with you—through words and photos, using whatever alchemy I can muster on a given day to make the experience as real as possible. I want us to join at this riverbank table and share the feast.

At the end of that first post, I closed by saying: "If you enjoy this blog, let me know. I can always use the encouragement." That hasn't changed…I want to hear from you so I can welcome you to this shared celebration.

Thank you, everyone—followers, faithful readers, lurkers, occasional visitors. THANK YOU!

AHHH-H-H-H…LEAVES!

Leaves!

I'll probably be seeing them in my sleep for the next week. Why? Because I spent most of yesterday raking leaves and piling them into waist-high rows. Then I loaded those leaf-mountains—one wheelbarrow-size portion at a time—and trucked them around the cottage to my make-shift compost dump, which is really just a narrow space between the base of the hill below the road and several piles of topsoil I had dropped off to use for landscaping. There, the leaves can spend the next few months breaking down without the wind blowing them around or me looking at them—and next spring I'll add them to the dirt and use the enriched mixture when planting or for top-dressing.

About midday, when I had the rows raked but before I'd begun the wheelbarrowing, I took a short break. From the perspective of the deck rocker, where I sat sipping from a bottle of water after washing down a couple of Tylenol for my aching back, I decided the long leaf piles resembled a range of small mountains—possibly the Big Snowbirds down in North Carolina, or the Cumberlands in eastern Kentucky.

Leaves!

There's no shortage of leaves to deal with or not, as you wish, when you have almost an acre of ground that's mostly in trees—and big trees, at that. Trees in the 50–100 foot high range. Sycamore and hackberry, box elder, basswood, walnut, elm, to name a few. The largest sycamore is easily five feet in diameter; a big tree that produces big leaves and lots of 'em.

I've never worn out a rake…but it might happen here, providing I don't wear out first.

When the pain meds kicked in, I ended my break and began moving the mountainous leaf piles around to the composting cul-de-sac. We're talking maybe 50 wheelbarrow-loads here…and when I finally called it a day around 4:30 p.m., the hauling part of the job was only half done. Today's work is visible through my window even as I write.

However, that's not the whole story. The way the cottage is situated, the 300-foot stretch of river just beyond my great-room windows is what I consider my front yard. No leaves to rake and haul there! To the rear of the cottage is a parking area, and the drive leading down from the road. This steep, 50-x-300 foot section of hillside, between the road above and the level land where the cottage sits, is covered with trees and various bushes. I never do anything with all those leaves, preferring the au naturale shaggy, woodsy look.

But…and this is the the kicker…the cottage sits about midway on the bank-frontage portion of the property. Therefore, I have both an upstream and downstream side-yard. Yesterday, I worked in the lower side-yard only. I've not even begun to rake or pile, let alone haul, leaves from the other yard! And probably won't get around to that one until later in the week—providing the weather holds.

Leaves!

So common and unobtrusive we take them for granted. They seem so simple. Yet mankind has never managed anything half so marvelous. Through the process of photosynthesis, using the chlorophyll that gives a leaf its green color, a leaf converts sunlight into energy, adds water and carbon dioxide, and forms the various sugars and starches which feed the plant. As a byproduct of this magical manufacturing, the leaf exhales water vapor and oxygen. How cool is that!

At summer's end, with reproduction duties and growth over for the year, a plant begins storing it's energy reserves in the lower stem and roots, preparing for that long winter's nap. Days shorten; sunlight wanes. Chlorophyll regeneration slows, then halts. No more green. The leaf changes color—or rather, it reveals its true colors—the carotenoids and anthocyains which color leaves in scarlet and burgundy, crimson and rosé, orange, yellow, gold, lemon, russet, tan, bronze, amethyst, and dozens of shades in-between. That breathtaking autumnal patchwork we oooh and ahhh over come fall. One final show, just for us, courtesy of that lovely little leaf. How many manmade factories look that good after they've shut down production?

Of course, not all leaves turn color and fall off in autumn; many, such as holly, periwinkle, mountain laurel, stay green all year.

Then there are trees which seem to drop their leaves reluctantly—oaks being high on this stubborn-minded list. Even in the midst of February's whipping winter winds, you can usually find an old oak still hanging onto many of its leaves, though they're by then looking an ugly brown and decidedly tattered.

My big elm kept most of its bright yellow leaves until last Wednesday, when for whatever, it decided to drop them over a matter of hours—a gold cascade that I found both thrilling and sad. But my weeping willow hasn't yet taken that final step—in fact, its narrow leaves are still more green than yellow. They looked so marvelous against yesterday's blue sky that theirs was the only portrait I made.

An artistic moment between bouts of landscaping labor. Rake, rake, pile, load, haul, dump, rake some more. As I said, I'll likely being seeing leaves in my sleep for the next week.

Ahhh-h-h-h…leaves!

HAWK SURPRISE

A few minutes ago I was getting ready to head out to the bank and grocery store. I figured I'd better give Moon-the-Dog a bit of time in the yard before she hopped in the pickup's cab. We exited out the back door. Moon went her way, I mine…which was around the cottage to take a look at the river. As usual I had my camera in hand.

Imagine my surprise—more like shock!—when a Cooper's hawk suddenly dashed through the trees and landed on the ground about a dozen feet from where I stood. I'd been ambling along toward the riverbank when the hawk flew down. There was no small bird or squirrel on the ground anywhere in the immediate vicinity of the hawk's landing zone; the hawk hadn't been targeting a victim or in hot pursuit. I wasn't dressed in head-to-toe camouflage.

I'm slightly smaller than your average sasquatch, but only slightly. Hawks have excellent eyesight and aren't noted for their inattention or being dullards. Therefore, a nature scribbler standing in his front yard does not expect a Cooper's hawk to plop itself practically at his feet…nor, I suspect, does a noble and savvy hawk expect to subject itself to such an embarrassing and precarious oversight.

I gaped at the hawk. The hawk gaped at me. I raised the camera, focused, snapped a photo. DSLR cameras make a lot of noise. The hawk still gaped at me. I took another photo. The hawk looked left. Photo three. Hawk looking right. And so it went for about another dozen shots—all more or less recording variations of similar poses.

Then Moon-the-Dog came around the corner. Moon gaped at the hawk. The hawk gaped at Moon…OHMYGODADOG! The terrified hawk almost turned inside-out taking off and flapping away. Moon gaped at me. I caused that?

Expect the unexpected. And carry a camera.

AUTUMN ONCE-REMOVED

A little bit abstract…

a smidgen of impressionistic…

a soupçon of reversed reality.

That's what you get when you view autumn as reflected off the surface of a lake or stream.

A shimmering, sometimes dreamy rendition that can be close to the real thing…

or no more than a colorful smear—colors juxtaposed and intermingled, as if the scene might have been shattered and hastily reassembled, now recognizable only because the hues look as though they could have come from the seasonal palette.

Autumn, yet not quite autumn; autumn once-removed.

I like to photograph things as seen in water's mirror.

A good thing, I suppose, seeing as how my front yard is a pastoral river with pools and riffles and lots of available reflections.

At least I don't have to go far to practice my predilection.

Do you like autumn's once-removed views?

Double-click, let me know…I'd be curious to hear.

HIE TO THE HUNTER'S MOON

Last night, a hour or so after darkness laid claim upon the land, I stood in the yard and watched a moon as shiny and round as a newly minted silver dollar come slipping up through the tangle of leafless maples to the east. The trees line the high ground uphill from the cottage—and for a while, the rising moon seemed to get slowed by the interlaced branches.

I wanted a picture, but I had to be patient for another half hour, until the bright moon finally rolled above the skeletal treetops…and then I had to hurry, because not far above that narrow band of clear night sky, a thick wadding of altocumulus clouds, like thousands of cotton balls laid upon a glass ceiling, waited to hide the light again.

Last night's full moon was known for centuries by Europeans as the Hunter's Moon. They brought the name—along with their traditional Feast of the Hunter's Moon—to these shores. Here, as it had in the old countries, hunters seeking to bag migrating birds found the bright moon, during waxing and waning, furnished sufficient shooting light for several nights in a row. Non-migratory game was also quite active under this natural nightlight, and could be chased with dogs. Such matters were of great importance—not because of sport, but survival.

Several tribes of American Indians also called this moon by a similar name in their own language—and for exactly the same reasons. The moon extended the hunting time with its bright, useful light. For all northern people, red or white, this big full moon came at an ideal time to stockpile and preserve a much-needed supply of meat to help see them through winter.

The Full Hunter's Moon receives its designation from the Full Harvest Moon, which is the first full moon closest to the autumnal equinox. Just as the Full Harvest Moon might occur in either September or October, the Full Hunter's Moon can happen in October or November. Since lunar months average only 29 days in length, full moon dates shift from year to year. (Incidentally, when the Full Harvest Moon comes in October and the Full Hunter's Moon in November, that September moon is called the Full Corn Moon.)

Some Indians knew this full moon as the Beaver Moon. This moon marked the best time to set beaver traps in swamps and marsh areas in hopes of catching plenty of beaver before the onset of winter. Beaver have warm, water-shedding fur—now in its prime condition—and also a lot excellent meat which can be smoked and jerked. The tanned furs, fashioned into beaver-skin robes for outerwear and bedding, were often the crucial difference between living and dying in the northcountry.

I eventually got my photo. Afterwards, ambling back to the cottage, I took a few more minutes to watch the moon's reflected light scatter and sparkle in the river's murmuring riffle. The old moon names don't mean much to us anymore beyond a bit of quaint folklore. We have lost our connection to land and season. Many would be surprised to learn it is the earth, not civilization, that sustains us. How long can a species, so crippled by ego and ignorance, survive?

However long or short that time may be, the Full Hunter's Moon will keep rising in the east, setting in the west—shining it bright clear light on whatever remains.

QUESTIONS…

This second day of November began with fog along the river—restless swirls of luminous white mist that hung over pools and riffles like leftover ghosts from Halloween. The view upstream was softened, the familiar scene transformed, given an aura of mystery, as if time had been shifted back to a moment just after creation. Water and sky merged. Sycamores leaned thoughtfully, like white-robed Druids.

The only sound was that most ancient language of water purling over stone. A muted whisper; a voice of secrets. What was it saying?

During the small hours of the night, I had awakened and arose from my bed. An odd light seemed to be filling the front room. It took me a moment to identify the light's source as a nearly full moon, diffused by a thin screen of clouds, now coming through the room's high-set triangular windows as a pale, silvery wash.

Perhaps, I now thought, that hadn't been clouds beyond my river-facing windows, but the first shimmery breath of this fog which hushed and altered my streambank world. For a long time I stood beside the moving water, listening to the silence, wondering what lay beyond that veil of fog.

A fellow I know recently told me he was trying to quit asking questions. Why? Because, he said, the older he became, the less he liked the answers. He may be right. Could be some questions are better left unasked. After all, curiosity is said to have been a fatal flaw to the cat. But I can't imagine ever reaching that point where I don't want to know, to learn, to find out what's beyond that veil of mist.

And I want to know, too, what message the river keeps repeating to my untuned ear.

ALL GOOD

Today we began a new month, with its own fresh page on the calendar.

November is the last full month of autumn, a fact I suspect a lot of folks forget—especially when a north wind comes whistling around the eaves and sleet rattles like buckshot against the windows. Or a skift of snow dusts the new-fallen leaves like a spilled barrel of flour.

Oh, yeah…it can do all that in November.

But November can also be sunny and bright, shirt-sleeve warm. Soft, sweet days filled with the scent of cider and woodsmoke, and radiant, golden light that sweeps into every corner of the now-opened woodlands, and sparkles off the riffles like the sunniest day in spring.

That's November, too.

November can blow hot or cold, mild, crisp, chilly. It can blow in gentle zephyrs, like a lover's caress, or draw across your body like an icy razor that slices straight through flesh and bone to your spinal marrow. Sometimes November's breeze comes scuttling through the yard, catches all those leaves you so carefully raked into a neat pile, and hurls them aloft like so much confetti. There! What do you think of that!

The thing is, you just never know about November. It's this and that, and everything in-between—always changing, unpredictable, kaleidoscopic, full of surprise.

The best way to waltz happily through November is by thinking of it as sort of the seasonal version of going to one of those big family reunions they have down in the hill country. You know, the ones that are held the same summer weekend every year, so folks from out-of-town can have plenty of time to plan their vacations around attending. They always take place on the grounds of the local Baptist or Methodist church, because there's plenty of comfortable shade out back for folding chairs and blankets for seating, plus the fifteen or twenty makeshift serving tables made by laying 4X8 sheets of plywood between two sawhorses; and should it rain, room in the church's basement—just barely, if everyone crowds in—to eat and visit.

Now the pertinent part of such a shindig as it relates to November, is the food on those groaning tables. All homemade, of course. (A true Mountain Southerner would no more come a'callin' to a family reunion carrying a bucket of fast-food chicken, than he would without first giving his pickup truck it's annual wash and wax, or fail to bring along Ol' Rattler, his favorite bluetick. Yes'am, hound dogs enjoy reunions, too.)

Anyway, as I was saying…the food is homemade and probably the cook's best dish. Or best half-dozen dishes, not including pies and cakes, and their personal take on banana pudding. Why, it ain't neighborly to come carryin' just one thing to share on a table.

The point is, it's all good. Every last bite.

Sure, this bowl of chicken-and-dumplin's is not quite the same as that bowl of chicken-and-dumplin's—or any of those other twenty variations you do your best to sample. Just like none of the home-canned green beans taste alike, or the creamed onions, or the macaroni-and-tomatoes. There are too many cat-head biscuits for an honest assessment; too many pones of cornbread (none with sugar…uggh!), and more potato dishes than even a hungry man with a good appetite could manage.

We won't attempt to discuss dessert, especially pies—apple, peach, rhubarb, gooseberry, strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, chocolate, cocoanut, peanut butter or about twenty-five others. And cakes. And cookies to fill out those odd corners after the three-hour meal.

Good. All good. Good. Good. Good!

Just like November. Sun snow, wind, rain, clouds, blue skies…good. All good.