SPLENDID CLUTTER

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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!

INTENSE AUTUMN

Today was a real show-stopper—one of those knock-your-socks-off October days that can make up for a week's worth of gloomy weather. As a photographer, you almost hate to see such days comes along because when you show folks your photos, they automatically assume you've pumped up the colors in Photoshop or some other digital manipulation program.

No way a maple can be that fiery orange-red, or a sky so deeply, intensely blue!

Hey, I was out there, Nikon in hand, looking at those trees and that sky with my own two eyes…and even I had trouble believing the extravagant reality of the over-the-top hues no artist with brush or lens could ever hope to capture. There were times when I didn't know whether to laugh with joy or cry from the sheer, soul-stirring wonder of autumn's impact.

When folks talk about moving to the South or Southwest—those lands of endless summer, where every cookie-cutter day is just like those days before and the ones to follow—I think about what I'd miss…these bright October days when summer's green woods suddenly becomes a patchwork riot of red and orange, yellow and gold, crimson and scarlet and burgundy and amethyst.

No amount of palm trees swaying in the tropics, nor cactus and hoo-doo rocks in the desert, could come anywhere close to comparing with an October day when the leaves don their fancy dress, and the sky spreads out an azure counterpoint.

Today simply reiterated what I've long believed…that if through some misfortune of logistics I were forced to miss what I consider a real autumn—even for a single year—my heart would surely break.

FADING TO BLACK

It begins with a final wash of gold high in the top of the tallest sycamore. As if the changing leaves had been varnished with bright, warm light. All the surrounding trees are dark, lost in the shadows of twilight. Only this old monarch, it's west-facing crown higher than those of its brethren, witnesses the day's final moments.

In the riffle and the pool above, other trees paint the water with their reflected hues. A fish stirs, takes something off the surface; quickly another feeds. This edge of darkness is the magic hour for the angler, the bewitching moment when the elemental veil seems to rend and water and sky becomes one, with you in the middle. Anything can happen. Your next cast might be that one you've dreamed about…but whether it yields a fish or mermaid, who can truly say?

The riffle begins to darken as the river cloaks itself in shadows. Objects such as stones and logs and clumps of leaves lose their details, turning into shapes—silhouettes of their former selves now surrounded by a flow of quicksilver blue.

And then even that is gone—and the only remaining evidence of the day upon the stream is a single scattering of sparkles on the pool below. A handful of magenta embers, vestiges of the sun's ebbing flame which have somehow found their way through the trees covering the far bank.

You stand quietly and watch this corridor woods as the light winks between the trunks—the sun falling, falling, pulled over the horizon until it becomes merely a glow that quickly fades to black.

Then you glance back and up, wondering if the top of the tall sycamore still has the lost day in view—but now you see only a shadow, a towering dark ghost…for all is nothing without the light.

WAITING AND WATCHING

When I stepped outside this morning, it was chilly and damp, the sky thick with clouds and a feeling of rain in the air. Yet when I walked around the cottage and glanced at the sky, a barely waning Harvest Moon was just setting into the trees…and for a moment I thought the predicted rain might not materialize.

The river was quite in the dim light, even in the riffle—though maybe I'm so used to its murmur that I failed to hear it whispering over the rocks. Fog hung above the pools and swirled in the shadows. The bankside vegetation still looked mostly green, though now with a yellowish cast, as if summer's dose of chlorophyll in leaves and stems had finally gotten the message to cease and desist, and allow autumn to don its own warm hues.

From upstream came the honking of approaching geese—not migratory birds, but rather a few of the Canadas who often spend the night on one of the nearby ponds. The big birds passed directly overhead…and as I watched them cleave the air just above the tall sycamores, I noticed the sky had again been hidden behind a mottled scrim of clouds and fog.

I'd intended on making a foray afield to check on the seasonal progress and do a bit of photography at several locations a short drive from the cottage. The soft, flat light of such a day is especially good for photographing autumn leaf color, though I realize that may sound counterintuitive. Here along the river, there are practically no reds at the moment—not even on the usually blazing sumac or Virginia creeper; their leaves are either still green, or else sport various shades of yellow and orange.

I had to look long and hard to find anything red—and even those few I located were muted and not anything to compare with a showy swamp maple. Frankly, I'm not sure if it's just a slow season hereabouts for the bright colors to materialize with their knockout hues, or if if it's simply going to turn into one of those ho-hum years in which the show fizzles before it really begins. Only time will tell…

I was watching a handful of brown boxelder leaves drift slowly downstream when the first of the rain began. A drip here, a patter or two there, then a cold wet drop on the end of my nose. The thought of a cheery hearthfire sounded like a fine alternative for waiting out the morning and seeing what options the afternoon might deliver.

You can't hurry autumn any more than you can spring. The leaves will turn in their own time, just as the violets ignore all our advice and pleading as to when to bloom. Mankind, for all his bluster and meddling, has yet to tell a goose that it's time to head south, or a swamp maple that now's the moment to put on its bright scarlet cloak. The hummingbirds are long gone without our council. The groundhog has prepared his winter den and is busily fattening up for the season of cold he knows in his bones will soon enough arrive…and never once though of confirming this notion with anyone.

I like that. It gives me great comfort to know I'm not in charge—but merely allowed to stand and look…and marvel at all I witness.

MEANDERING SALAMANDER

Sometime when I open the cottage door rather quickly, the suction draws an unexpected visitor inside. Usually these inadvertent guests, who—as luck would have it—happened to be on the outside of the sill when the door was yanked open, are spiders, or maybe a cricket. The latter are promptly sent packing, while the former are summarily dispatched with malice aforethought—usually with an added two or three broom-whacks as a cautionary deterrent to any eight-legged cronies who might be watching.

Living on the river, however, one comes to expect the unexpected. Sometimes when I open the door, both the victim and I are startled. For example, I would never have expected to accidentally suck in a salamander. And when I looked down at the wriggling creature frantically scrambling across the wood entryway floor, it was apparent the little amphibian had been equally discombobulated. I hastily but gently corralled and captured the would-be escapee and, grabbing a camera, carried it outside for a quick portrait.

Salamanders come in a wide array of sizes and colors, though unless you actually go out in search of them—and know where and when to look for a particular species—you're not likely to encounter even a single animal during the entire year. Ohio has about 30 different salamanders—and in my years of rambling, I doubt if I've seen more than half that number of species. Salamanders are secretive, and with only an exception or two, smaller than most folks realize.

But they're also quite lovely, I think—delicate little creatures, often beautifully colored and marked. My doorway visitor was a red-backed salamander, one of the more common of the woodland species. It had probably been moving from the mulch and leaf detritus of the big planting bed which runs the length of the cottage to a more sheltered wintering site under the deck.

After admiring my squirming neighbor for a few moments, I placed him at the edge of the planting bed and the deck, close to a few sheltering stones…and wished him luck through the months ahead. Life on the river is never boring.

WHINE POWER!

Sometimes the unbelievable happens. But only rarely does it happen twice, in exactly the same way, many states apart, to two different people…simply because they both whined.

At least I think it has happened, though it will require the judgement of a better birder than myself to confirm this to my satisfaction. I know the facts of the incident are true, though I'm not completely certain about my conclusion. Feel free to weigh in with your own opinion. In fact, feel free to not believe me about the unfolding of the event itself; I might not believe me either if I were in your place.

Here's the tale…

About 9:45 this morning, I blog-hopped my way to Jayne's "Journey Through Grace" site. Her post was about sitting on her deck and whining to her husband over the fact others had migrating rose-breasted grosbeaks appearing at their feeders, while she has not seen one all spring and summer. Something of a bummer and a bit of a social snub to Georgia birdwatcher.

Moments after her whining, Jayne looks up and there, staring her in the face, is a juvenile male rose-breasted grosbeak! Either an astonishing coincidence, or else the shade of ol' J.J. Audubon had heard her whine and worked some magic.

Amused and totally sympathetic, at 9:57 I sent a comment: "Well, at least you've now had a grosbeak…I haven't seen one here all year! If it weren't raining, I'd try a whine on the deck myself."

Five minutes later—I swear, five minutes!—I look up from my desk at the feeder just beyond the window…and there is a strange bird feasting on sunflower seeds. A very grosbeak-like strange bird, shouldering aside the house finches and titmice, looking furtively like a nervous teenager making off with all the courtesy mints in the bowl on a hotel's check-out counter. No way!

It had just stopped raining and was almost as dark out as it had been at 7:30 this morning when I let Moon the dog out for a quick moment to do her business. Too dark for much of a photo, certainly—even with the camera's ISO cranked to 1600. But not too dark for me to see it sure looked like a grosbeak—though it appeared to be more striped and possibly buff-colored, though this latter business was impossible to tell for sure in the low light. Still…

The possible-grosbeak got startled by something and flew off. But an hour later, the bird returned, chowing down for a few moments before a red-bellied woodpecker ousted him from the feeder. Not long enough for a photo, but long enough that I got a better look in better light and thought if it wasn't a grosbeak—perhaps a female—I had no idea what else it might be. I was now beginning to hear faint strains of the theme music from the Twilight Zone.

My photo op came this afternoon. Again I looked up from the window and found the probable-grosbeak looking at me…or so it appeared. I grabbed the camera. The light was okay, except coming from the opposite side of the feeder—plus I was shooting through the window with, given the light and angle, a fair amount of glare. I shot anyway and hoped for the best.

So that's the story. I've looked and looked again, checked field guides and internet photos, studied and compared, and I think the bird is a young male rose-breasted grosbeak. In some of the shots, you can just see the beginnings of the distinctive rose-pink coloration in its otherwise buff feathers.

I could be wrong, though—fooled by wishful thinking. It wouldn't be unfamiliar territory. So feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. And maybe the photos aren't good enough to make the call—like I said, they're not the best.

But if I'm right…you can believe I'm going to make whining part of my daily routine. I think Jayne onto something useful here!

GREETING OCTOBER

One thing you can say for sure about weather…it changes.

After a couple of cloudy days, this first morning of October arrived cold and clear, as if the month wanted to prove it could look and feel like autumn. And I do mean cold…39F degrees when I checked at 7:00 a.m. Cold enough to see your breath and warrant a jacket with a bit of insulation rather than an unlined windbreaker.

What I wanted to do was get out, take a walk, make a few photos. Greet October on its own turf. Experience this monthly beginning immersed in the woods and fields—take the time to see and smell and feel the day and changing season. What I had to do was go to the hospital to have blood drawn for my annual checkup. After that came stops at a couple of stores. Then a few errands. Several necessary chores at the house. Which will be followed this evening by a Board meeting for the local community health center, on which I'm a member. With luck…I'll make it home before 8:00 p.m.

Well, this time I showed 'em! Whomever 'em is. Between the stores and the errands, I went AWOL, played hooky—made my escape! Okay, so it was only for 45 minutes; when my entire blessed day is planned out ahead of time, committed to a scribbled-onto-paper itinerary, I'll settle for whatever I can wring out. After all, in the scheme of things, savoring a small dish of ice cream is still better than no ice cream…right?

My walk was therefore short. Just a brief ramble along a loop trail that covers perhaps a half-mile of woodland. I knew that if I allowed time for gawking and dreaming and making a few photos, this would be about maximum.

I didn't expect to find much change visually from my outing earlier in the week—and that indeed proved the case. The landscape still looks as much late-summer as early-fall…though maybe this is just one of those perspective issues, like is the glass half-full or half-empty. At any rate green remains the dominant color. There are a few yellows and oranges, and tiny bits of red—usually provided by Virginia creeper. But quintessential autumn is still a couple of weeks away.

Seasons will always take their time, without regard to anyone's schedule save their own. Which is true freedom…though, alas, not my particular freedom for today. Maybe that's something I need to add to my schedule…