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Category: seasons

The Hedge in Autumn

The Hedge in Autumn

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I have a thing for hedges. Don’t know why. Maybe it’s the Anglophile in me dreaming of British hedgerows. Or maybe it’s the hospitality of hedges, the way they open themselves to sparrows and other small creatures.

Whatever the reason, I pay close attention to hedges, their colors and seasons. The hedge I pass each workday, the one I’ve written about in spring — the equipoise of pink and green as it buds — is now in brilliant autumn leaf. 

I like to think the pink-red part of the spectrum has asserted itself at last. After wearing green all summer the hedge is finally letting its true colors show.

Late Fall

Late Fall

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The colors of late fall are mature, subtle ones. The flamers, the few we had, have flamed out. What’s left are russets, dark oranges, pale golds.

When I wander in the woods, I slide through piles of dried leaves. This is where all the color has gone. Shriveled, crisped, beaten by rake and foot.

But this, I remind myself, is how new leaves begin. The soil for saplings is being crushed and created all around us. And though the brave colors are fading,  new colors are waiting in bud and stem.

Light through Leaves

Light through Leaves

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All morning long I’ve watched the leaves wag in the cool breeze, the light filter through the canopy to the deck and the French doors into the living room, where I work.

All morning long I’ve wanted to capture that light in word and image. Now that I’ve snapped the photo, I can’t think of anything to add.

It’s autumn, the rains have ended.

Light through leaves.

Scenes of the Season

Scenes of the Season

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Yesterday we drove out into the country to what my father had remembered as a rustic fruit stand that sold pumpkins this time of year. Signs led the way down the winding two-lane road.

But when we arrived it didn’t long to realize that the corner orchard had become an autumn carnival. Hundreds of cars were parked in rows across the grassy fields. Employees with flags directed traffic. We were waved into a handicapped spot (yes!) and made our way slowly out of the car and up to the packed pumpkin patch.

There were many varieties of apples — Granny Smith, Delicious and McIntosh — and Asian pears. There was cider, spiced and regular. There were gourds of various shapes and sizes. And because this is Kentucky, there was a reedy sculpture of … a horse.

Most of all, there was the autumn sun, out again after a brief shower, shining on the pumpkins.

Changing Purses

Changing Purses

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My mother, I recall, used to do it quite often — sometimes once or twice a week, to match her shoes. I do it once or twice a year, if I’m lucky.

I’m talking about changing purses, that great seasonal, female ritual (maybe male, too, I don’t want to discriminate!) in which the contents of one bag goes into another.

Sounds simple, right? But it’s not.

Because a purse has a soul, you see, a way of being carried or worn, and the Metro card spot in my woven straw-colored summer bag is completely different from the one in the my multi-pocketed black leather winter bag.

To complicate the process this year I’ve purloined a bag of Celia’s, one she loves but is not carrying  right now, college girl that she is. (A backpack or a pocket is all she needs.)

So I’ve tried to cram everything from a roomy “Mom”-type purse into a sleek younger model.

We’ll see how long it will be until I’m changing purses again!

Still Summer

Still Summer

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Rain in the morning, a high wind stirs the oaks. Leaves fall fast as drops.

For two weeks summer has been a birthright I’ve pretended will never end. Each day balmy and placid, each night a symphony of katydid and cricket chirps.

Today, maybe more of the same, if the rain behaves itself, stays tropical and warm, doesn’t veer into a chill autumn drizzle.

I know it’s only a matter of time before the illusion ends. But I’ll take it as long as I can.

Making it Official

Making it Official

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This summer, more than any other I can remember, the yard was filled with birds. Lured by new feeders and treats they filled the mornings with song and the afternoons with excited chatter.

Now the birds are going away. Not all of them, of course. But the hummingbirds are scarce to nonexistent and the goldfinches appear in singles rather than flocks. The woodpeckers that hopped each deck pilaster to reach the peanut butter block — I haven’t seen them in weeks.

I suppose some of these creatures — most of them — are winging their way south. The last few evenings I’ve spotted Vs of blackbirds tracking southeast in the cloudless sky.

No secret what it all means. I can read a calendar, can feel the chill in the morning air. But when the birds start to vanish that makes it all terribly official.

Summer is almost over. Fall is almost here.

Late Summer Color

Late Summer Color

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Purples and yellows splash color into the late-summer garden. Chicory blooms blue along the roadside. And for contrast, the bridal-veil white of clematis paniculata.

Summer may not have been hot this year, but it has been colorful. Plentiful rain has kept the grass green, has meant no watering, no parched soil.

Wildflowers scarce in other seasons are emboldened this year.  The soil has a memory, especially when it rains.

Late summer color softens the blow, warms these days of waning light.

Solar Cell

Solar Cell

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A chill in the air this morning reminds me that we’re closing in on fall — without really having had summer.  A few days of weather in the upper 90s, but for the most part relatively cool and rainy.

Most people rejoice. They say we’ve lucked out. But if you love the summer and don’t mind the heat,  coming to this point in the year with a brisk wind and low humidity feels like cheating.

Where are those long langourous afternoons? The scent of the water as it flows from the hose? The long hot walks down the Mall?

Maybe they’re in the future. If not, they’re in memory.  Meanwhile, there are still black-eyed susans and sitting on the deck at noon, a human solar cell, storing up heat for the winter to come.

Seasonal Confusion

Seasonal Confusion

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A walker knows what time of year it is, feels it in her bones, knows it because she’s out in the elements and notices the first brisk winds of fall, the tang in the air that means winter is near.

But lately this walker is confused.  On my morning walk from Metro to the office I thought it might be early fall. Gray skies, drizzle, an occasional leaf pasted to the sidewalk.

No, it’s still summer. A strange summer, to be sure. But only August 1.

I glance up at the sky, pull my sweater tighter around me, and make my way quickly inside.