MORNING COLOR

Today was magnificent! Brilliant light, clear blue sky. And autumn's bold colors coming on strong. Not warm, however, in spite of how pretty as it looked—thanks to a stiff wind. The thermometer stood at 37˚F when I got up and breakfasted. Nor had it yet reached the 50˚ mark when I'd finished with a morning doctor's appointment and decided to take a roundabout drive home. 

Our color peak hereabouts is normally about the 21-23 of the months. I'd say this year it might happen as much as a week earlier…providing there are any leaves still clinging to the trees by the time we get there. Today's fierce winds tore leaves by the uncountable thousands off with every strong gust. A lot of trees are already bare.

There's still lots of color, though; nature deals in excess when it comes to autumn's lovely leaves—especially golds and yellows and rusty-bronzes. Plus vast fields of goldenrods and roadside clumps of various asters. Red and yellow, purple and gold…and a crystalline blue canopy spread from horizon to horizon overhead.      

NO FROST, SOME FOG

The weather watchers had predicted frost for this morning, so yesterday afternoon we brought our few vulnerable plants inside. But as dawn comes over the hill, from the perspective of my deskside window, I don't see any evidence of a silver-white glaze on the grass. Of course that could still occur should we drop another degree or so before actual sunrise. Fog along the river—which was only a slight wispiness a minute or two ago—is, however, becoming noticeably thicker. 

*  *  *

Okay. I've just stepped outside for quick reconnoiter, to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing…or in this case, not seeing. And I was right: no frost. But plenty cold. Too cold to remain out long in only a short-sleeves teeshirt and no jacket. I made a quick upriver snap, then hustled back inside. 

As you can see, there's still not a lot of color, other than an increase in the rusty yellows and jaundiced browns—which is the usual autumnal dress for the leaning sycamores which dominate the riverbanks. Other than a spiraling scarlet flame of high-vining Virginia creeper, there's generally not much red to be seen here along the stream. For dominate reds, you have to go uphill, up the road, where there are maples and sassafras and sweetgums.

But fall is definitely here. We had our first hearthfire of the season yesterday evening—and it felt good. Time moves steadily along… 

NAMELESS BEAUTY

Do you recognize this? I found it during yesterday's ramble in an old field up the road. Just this single plant, all but lost amidst a sea of burnished goldenrod and fading asters.

My first thought was some sort of vetch. But then I wondered if it might be one of the clovers. Surely a member of the vast legume family…though possibly not. Native? Escapee from the garden? I ought to know this on sight; there's a part of my brain that keeps whispering, Why you big dummy, that's…at which point the whisper fades. No doubt it's quite common. 

I've thumbed through several field guides, yet nothing seems a good match. Part of the trouble is the plant appears rather past its prime. Of course, I don't know that for sure, either. And naturally I didn't pay sufficient attention to the necessary details in order to key it down in one of my better references. 

Whatever it is, I thought it was pretty, nodding demurely in the afternoon breeze as the sky began clouding up preparatory to today's storm front. For me, a nameless beauty. 

SPOTTY CHANGE

Autumn's color is truly getting underway—in some quarters, anyway. At certain corners, a stretch of woodland edge, this fencerow, that particular maple, the change-over is occasionally dazzling. But elsewhere it's still spotty, even almost nonexistent, as if not every bush and tree has yet gotten the message. Or maybe this patchy early color is just the plant-world's example of those folks who always insist on arriving 45 minutes early for church, a movie, or their dinner reservations at a restaurant.

I made the top photo from the truck, just up the road, during a morning shower. The image on the bottom, a view of the river a half-mile upstream from the cottage, was taken a few minutes later.

See what I mean?

Of course some things, such as this spiraling crimson flame of Virginia creeper couldn't turn any brighter, or redder, or prettier if it took another full month to strut its stuff. This individual vine is at its very peak, though other nearby examples range from pink to pale-orange to still fully green.  

SEPTEMBER FAREWELL

This evening, I watched from my deck rocking chair as the sun sank in the west and twilight stole across the river. The sky slowly dimmed, sycamores leaning over the water grew somber, the riffle went from azure to indigo—while two-hundred yards upstream, a final surge of direct light found an opening in the blocking hills, blazed onto the eastern bank, and the first of the turning leaves glowed boldly in hues of  red and yellow. 

September, I thought, was quickly slipping away, bidding me fare-thee-well even as a bright Harvest Moon—a day past full—began it's evening climb into the sky. The next full moon will be the Hunter's Moon, and after that comes the Beaver Moon.

I love this time of year, love watching autumn assert its rule, claiming and transforming the land; it always catches me in its spell. Still, I also wonder—how many more times will I have the privilege of witnessing this change? How many more times will any of us? Time is a precious gift, never to be wasted. It's taken me a while to learn that—but I'm always cognizant of that singular inescapable fact, and never more so than during these weeks of turning leaves. Autumn is nature's vivid metaphor for our allotted time. We too, have our season.

So, in this final bow of glory another September bids adieu. I wish it well and thank it for the this evening's show…even as I whisper a silent prayer that we'll meet again.                  

MISS IVY'S RED DRESS

You have to give poison ivy points for autumn color…but better not give Miss Ivy a congratulatory pat for donning such a dazzling red dress. If you do, she'll likely respond by thanking you with an itchy, blistering rash. Photo taking is perfectly safe, however, so long as you keep your hands off the leaves and don't brush against the plant with your clothing—which could pick up some of the chemical irritant and later get transferred to your skin. 

It doesn't take much. 

The problematic substance is an oily resin called urushiol. Something like 90% of the population is susceptible to the stuff, through their reactions vary—from so mild as to be scarcely felt or noticed, to scary-awful, possibly requiring hospitalization. For most folks it's usually just a patch of itchy red rash, maybe a few blisters, which torments for a couple of weeks. However, urushiol is so potent that only a few molecules of the toxic oil will do you in—a mere quarter-once would be sufficient to cause an allergic skin reaction in every human on earth! 

I'm not much bothered by poison ivy. I've regularly waded through half-acre patches—it's prevalent along streams and the edges of fields and woods—and now and then will react with a dime-sized itchy rash. But as is the case with most allergic reactions, personal sensitivity can change dramatically—so I may not always remain immune.

Here in this corner of Ohio we have three urushiol-laden plants—poison ivy, poison oak, and poison sumac. The latter is pretty much restricted to bogs, swamps, marshes, and fens and most people never come close to exposure…a good thing, since the urushiol in poison sumac is said to be far more potent than in either poison ivy or poison oak. 

Like most outdoorsy kids, I learned to recognize the distinctive leaf patterns early on, and just pay attention (sorta) when rambling afield. I made the photo above yesterday when, after finishing grocery shopping, I decided to take the roundabout way home and see how autumn was coming along away from the riverbank. I saw the scarlet clump blazing along a fence. 

It's practically impossible to resist a pretty lass in a red dress!  

A MODEST REPORT

Today was mostly cloudy, filled with soft light and late in the afternoon a bit of rain. A good day for working at my desk, which is how I spent the majority of the time. A carbon copy of yesterday—desk work, cloudy skies, light rain. Neither day very cool.

Not very autumn-like yet, the weather. Not very autumn-looking hereabouts, either. The river's water is olive green, about at normal level, and most of the leaves on trees along the banks are still dressed in their various shades of chlorophyll green, with just a hint of yellow. Only the woodbine twining up the sycamores has started to add daubs of crimson to it five-leaf clusters. Fall has yet to start working much magic here at the streamside.

But it was probably that merest hint of autumn, along with the cloudy day and the patter of rain on the roof, that made me think of doing fried cabbage for supper. Or maybe it was the huge, bright-green homegrown cabbage head I bought yesterday at the orchard market up the road where I stopped to sample their latest batch of cider (too sweet, I decided, needing more tart in the mix) and picked up a peck of my favorite first-of-the-season honeycrisp apples. 

First I fried up some good hickory-smoked sausage, cut into small chunks, along with about a teaspoon of fresh garlic and a tablespoon of onion, both finely diced, adding maybe a teaspoon of olive oil. I removed the sausage and aromatics from the oil and set them aside in a small dish. Then I sautéd the cabbage. I used half the head, chopped into inch-square bits—adding kosher salt, paprika, and a few red pepper flakes—tossing regularly until tender but not overcooked. At that point the sausage mix went back in, another toss or two, a teaspoon of brown sugar and a good dollop of apple cider vinegar, toss again, and it was finished…and delicious!

In case you're wondering—the carpentry part of my front door project got finished Sunday…well, most of it, the hard, critical work. I still have to add some new trim along the edges of the jambs. And I'm waiting for a warm, sunny day to paint the exterior side; the inside will get new stain and varnish. 

The job proved a real bear, I can tell you. Nothing was plumb or square, and given the way it was originally installed, I couldn't change that without getting into a major renovation. All I could do was make adjustments. Not the way it should be done, but the only way it could be done, given my options and the current state of my finances. However, there were times when I thought the only solution was to chuck the whole thing, rip out the wall, charge the cost of brand new everything to whatever piece of plastic worked, and call in the experts with the proper tools to fix my mess.

I quickly got over that notion. Irish stubbornness and frugality won. They were aided by Myladylove's misplaced faith that I was smart enough and sufficiently competent to overcome any situation…a belief I, shamefully, did nothing to discourage. But it was certainly the motivating factor, and likely the reason I fretted and worried and puzzled over the imbroglio long enough that I finally came up with a scheme that worked. Now, to all but the most critically-discerning eye the door's fit appears perfect—certainly more than good enough to pass inspection by any eyes of those likely to do such examining.

My previously right-hand door now opens from the left—swinging against the wall, out of the way, while keeping with common sense design. Unfortunately, Moon-the-Dog, bless her heart, still goes to the old—now the hinge—side when she's ready to be let out. But she's a smart pooch, and will soon learn to not repeat her error—which is doubtless better than I ought to expect of myself.