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The Standout

The Standout

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It’s a broad, bare expanse I see when I look out an upstairs window now. Tall, straight trunks sprouting tangles of limbs and branches — all  brown or gray or a shade yet unnamed that is their pairing( (bray?). 

If it’s a sunny day, add a splash of blue for the sky. If it’s not, then a lighter shade of gray for the firmament.

The eye, in this case, is drawn to the standouts, the few trees yet to lose their leaves. There’s only one of those left in the backyard — a shrub of some indeterminate breed. But what a thrill it is to spy its rich crimson. 

“Here I am,” it seems to shout. “All is not lost.” 

Two Homes

Two Homes

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As the light fades, the sounds change. Instead of birds flitting through azaleas, squirrels scamper through leaves. The sound of autumn is the sound of rustling, of animals circling to find their resting places.

We humans, too, take our clues from the light. First our plants come in, then we do, too, reluctantly in the beginning but eagerly in the end. Back to these houses that are both balm and bait, which cushion our captivity with heat and comfort, with down pillows and warm baths.

Once inside, we will forget the wild world where Blue jays cry and ants crawl slowly up the pergola post. Our spirits will flag without that knowledge.

And then, one warm winter afternoon, we will sit in the sun on the top of the deck steps. We will sniff the earth again and feel stirred by the same breeze that eddies the crushed leaves. We will know then that we have two homes, and we do best when we live in both of them.

November Question

November Question

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Warm Novembers confront us with a question: Is it the early darkness that makes the month gloomy — or the cold temperatures? Melville would say the latter, I think, at least he would if we take the famous opening lines of Moby Dick with its “damp, drizzly November in my soul” as proof of where the novelist stood on the matter.

For many of us, though, it’s not just the damp drizzle; it’s also the early darkness, the dying of the light. I saw this first hand in the parakeets yesterday. Lulled into autumnal complacency by the mid-70 temps, I brought the birds out onto the deck to share the glass-topped table with me as I worked. 

They were chattering and happy, doing their best to respond to wild bird calls … until the sun began slanting lower and lower in the sky.  Then, as if on cue, they quieted and calmed, began tucking their heads into their wings. 

Even when it’s warm, the early darkness has its way with us. 

Naming Names

Naming Names

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The late-turning trees are giving us a final burst of color. In the front yard, the Kwanzan cherry has burst into a sunny yellow that matches its spring bloom for brightness and intensity.

In the backyard, the volunteer Japanese maple is outdoing itself: its bright scarlet hue shining in the sun that is just now touching the back fence.

Closer to the house, the black gum’s final leaves flutter like tiny, opalescent flags. Their color is a magnet, drawing the eye. As I look more closely, I see two young upstart black gums right behind the tall one. How is it that I’d never noticed this before, never used the fall color not just as inspiration but as information, another clue to naming names in the natural world?  

Auguring Good

Auguring Good

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I don’t want to write about politics all week, but it’s difficult to think about much else these days. I’m also trying not to read too much into omens and symbols, though I do anyway. Sometimes I think I was born into the wrong time or culture, because I do more than my share of knocking on wood. 

Yesterday, hoping that my candidate will prevail, I took comfort in the fact that the climbing rose is still producing lovely, creamy pink flowers — even this first week of November. 

And so, although I have already featured the climbing rose in recent posts, I feature it again today. The bloom of a rose, the scent of a rose, speaks of renewal and beauty and augurs many good things. Surely we all need those now.

The Deck Desk

The Deck Desk

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For the last many months my desk has been a glass-topped table on the deck. It’s where I’ve scattered my notebook and planner, where I’ve carefully placed my laptop and phone after wiping the glass to remove even the tiniest drop of dew. 

It’s a table that gives me a front-row seat on the natural world. Squirrels and chipmunks scamper a few feet away from me, searching for acorns. Cherry tomatoes still cling to the vine. The hanging basket of New Guinea impatiens has thinned and browned, but there are still enough bright flowers to remind me of summer.

Even as the leaves turn from green to yellow — and power tool sounds from lawnmowers to leaf blowers — I sit here still. This is my workplace, my deck desk.

The Pipeline Path

The Pipeline Path

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I wouldn’t want to live next to it, but the oil pipeline a couple miles from here has at least one thing to recommend it, and that is its paved path. I walked it on Saturday, right after mailing my letters.  Starting on McLearen, sun-warmed in the brisk air, I dipped off onto a trail I’d tramped long ago, turning left instead of right, navigating a fair-weather crossing right after a dog and his owner had just decided not to attempt it (the man was game but the dog was having none of it). 

From there it was just a bend and a hill-trudge from a buckled, fir-shaded, needle-strewn path along the greensward. Though I enjoy the meditative woods walk, there is much to be said for a stroll that skims the backs of houses. There’s an intimacy there you don’t find otherwise. 

I had a front-row seat on screened-in porches, knock-out roses and garden gates. There were trampolines, bird baths, even campaign signs. And on the path, a complement of fellow walkers who seemed as happy as I was to be alive and walking on such a fine fall morning.

A Patch of Grass

A Patch of Grass

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Now that it’s fall, with cool nights and warm days, something is happening in the backyard, something I longed for all summer long: the grass is growing! I’ve seen it springing up all over the yard, but especially here, where it luxuriates with a few autumn leaves. 

While some homeowners worry about a patch of weeds, here we celebrate a patch of grass. I’d almost forgotten what it looks like, its long thin spears so soft on bare feet, so tempting to trod.

The ongoing lack of grass and subsequent weediness has been through no lack of trying. Seed has been sown, and sown, and sown. But the hard clay soil has seemed impervious to it. All the more reason to be gladdened now — that for some reason, be it rain or chill or slant of sun, the seed has finally taken.

Seeing this patch of grass now, feeling it tender beneath my feet … gives me hope. 

What’s Eating Folkstone?

What’s Eating Folkstone?

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Neighbors are buzzing. Theories abound. But no one has yet figured out why great swaths of lawn are being rooted up, ripped through and turn asunder. No one is quite sure what’s eating Folkstone. 

Is it that eight-point buck that’s been cruising the woods near here, pawing the ground in a show of virility as he partakes of our impatiens? Or could it be an errant bear, chunking up before winter comes.

The most believable theory is that hungry skunks or raccoons are tearing through the grass looking for grubs. Once they sniff them out, they paw through the dirt until they’ve eaten their fill. 

It’s hard to overstate just how bad a lawn looks after they’re finished with it. The photo above just hints at the damage. But stay tuned for more evidence soon. The latest plan: to install a remote camera.

Still Outside

Still Outside

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I write this post as I have written so many others the past few months: sitting on the deck in this lovely outside “room,” where I have a front-row seat on bird flight, leaf fall and squirrel shenanigans. 

It’s quite mild and pleasant now, but Monday morning I took the call to al fresco work to rather ridiculous proportions. Bundled in three layers of cotton, wool and down, I cut the fingertips off a pair of old gloves and donned a hat, too. My colleagues said I looked ready for the ski slopes. Instead, I was ready for a hot bath. It took a while to thaw out! 

The fact is, I don’t want to move inside. Moving inside means winter is coming, means the boundaries are closing in. I have a fantasy that I can work out here at least down to 50 degrees F. And, as long as it’s not windy (which was Monday’s problem), I think I can. 

As for now, I’m looking at the splendor around me: trees just starting to turn, flowering annuals holding bloom, sunlight dappling the lawn. It’s October, it’s mellow, and (yes!) I’m still working outside.