I got up early one dark morning last week, intent on walking to my barn office to get some writing done before breakfast. When I do this, I slip out of the front door instead of the back, lest our two dogs erupt in a frenzy of pre-dawn barking. On this morning, I closed the door quietly. Then I looked up. That’s when I saw it.
There, sparkling above the eastern horizon, was Orion, the Hunter, the constellation that is a clear harbinger of autumn and the cold days to come. I comforted myself that the season is not so advanced that the hunter’s faithful dog Sirius, near Orion’s heel and the brightest star in the sky, was rising high enough for me to see it just yet.
Soon enough, though, it’s coming. This is the time I envy my friends in New Zealand and Australia. Unlike us, they are heading into longer days, warmer nights and holiday barbecues. We’ve had our turn. Now it’s theirs. (Send me a postcard in January, peeps!)
I watched as geese headed south at the end of August, which I thought was way too early for them to rise aloft in their ubiquitous V-formation, honking to each other and arguing over the best route. The barn swallows that make their contented, but messy, summer homes in our barn packed up and migrated south by the middle of August, to our relief. Every winter my husband and I talk about stapling chicken wire across the ceiling joists to keep our feathered friends from building nests in awkward places, but so far, we haven’t gotten that ambitious. There are so many tasks to keep you busy on a farm even in winter that it is a safe bet that the birds will return unscathed next year.
Pete’s crops reflect the season – huge sunflowers that we sell for $1 each at the farmers market, along with bushel baskets filled with pumpkins and squashes. The tomatoes have slowed down. The potatoes, garlic and onions have long since been harvested and we’ve stored them mostly for our use. The ever-bearing strawberries we planted with such high hopes this spring didn’t give us much fruit this summer, but the second year promises to be better. Our apple trees have plenty of fruit but since we never spray pesticides on them, they have spots, too imperfect to sell. They are good for pies, though.
As the season passes, the wind rises.
It’s time for my annual fall trip to a beautiful, rural area in neighboring Rhode Island that has become my autumn tradition. After a half-mile, forested hike, the landscape opens up to gorgeous countryside with no habitation for miles. There, wild cranberries grow close to the ground, tart and delicious. I always pick and freeze a pound or two to use in pancakes and muffins. But I really go to enjoy the beauty of this quiet, lovely corner.
The New England states where I live are famous for the vibrant reds, golds, and yellows of the trees in fall, but weeks earlier, you can see the leaves begin to turn dusty green, their color more and more muted. But there are other signs, too. As a sailor, I can tell the season is passing with the rising of the wind. Instead of the gentle breezes of warmer days, late September and the month of October are more likely to have high gusts and storms.
One year I was out of town for a week in October when several storms in a row hit the area of a private dock where I tied up my boat near several other vessels. I kept sneaking glimpses of the weather radar on my phone, getting more and more anxious, while sitting in endless meetings 1,000 miles from Long Island Sound. By the time I got back to the dock my little sailboat was the only boat left, but somehow survived unscathed. Other boat owners told me a huge log just missed smashing its hull during a storm. Since then I have made it a point to haul the boat out of the water earlier, and this year, that will happen on Saturday. I’m hoping to sneak in one more sail before then, though.
Marigolds and black-eyed Susans remind me of late summer and early fall, and this year, they are popping up in the damndest places. We have a stone patio and somehow one determined little marigold is growing on a thimble full of dirt in between stones. On a gravel portion of our driveway, black-eyed Susans have taken root and are flourishing. I admire their persistence and am careful to leave them alone. Let them thrive in peace.
It reminds me of that quote from the Soviet writer Ilya Ehrenburg: "You could cover the whole Earth with asphalt, but sooner or later, green grass would break through." It’s a good reminder, for all of us, no matter what the season.
My favorite season. I gather autumn’s remnants, the fallen leaves, last blossoms shredded by wind, the dancing grasses, and dry them in my flower press. Why is it that that last burst of golden and copper life seems the fiercest?
Somehow, it’s escaped me until now that while I start bundling up in the fall here in New Hampshire, somewhere in Australia they’re just coming into Spring, my favorite season. If I had been fortunate enough to be a multi millionaire, I’d have been sorely tempted to follow spring around the world.