Mid-October Light

During the weeks following the summer solstice, dwindling day length is scarcely noticeable. 

Mid-August I become aware that the sun is lurking somewhere at the edge of the north-east boundary before appearing around the barn to spread a pattern of morning light through the east windows. It is still summer, hot, humid, heat and light with us through the evening.

By September the turning of the earth, the lingering morning dew, the exhaustion of the garden, announce change that can't be ignored.

As we approach the mid-point of October the chilly mornings and evenings, the lowered path of the sun remind us that we will soon be on the cusp of winter. 

I canned tomatoes today, getting down to it at nearly noon. [Sadly, not tomatoes from our own garden harvest, but good ones that Matt acquired at one of the local produce auctions.]

Only about half of the two cartons were ready to process--7 qts--so the project will be ongoing this week.

Jim brought in an old folding table to set up in the sunroom; I covered it in newspaper and carefully spread the remaining tomatoes in rows to gently ripen.

It was a day of scudding clouds, mostly sunny, but with a cold wind.

Pegging cotton sheets on the back porch lines, the wind snapped and pulled, billowing the fabric above my head and chilling my fingers.

Tidying the kitchen after the tomato project I admired the slanting late afternoon light, quickly gathered in the now dry sheets, went back outside with my camera.

Light and shade along the north edge of the ravine.

Another view to north and west. 

The hickory trees are turning rusty gold, but the branches are bare of hickory nuts. 

There have been blooms on clematis 'Dr. Ruppell'--this one lacks the distinctive white stripes.

Jackmanii, badly in need of pruning, sports a few blossoms swinging in the wind.

The white clematis, nameless.

Seedheads of clematis Candida clinging to the old fence.

J. suggested we walk the meadow loop at dusk. The wind had dropped and the light was fading. The tang of woodsmoke from our chimney floated on the crisp air; the three-quarter moon was already riding the sky. Fallen leaves scuffed underfoot; beneath the hickories the nubs of last year's nuts still crunch beneath our shoes.

Self-sown zinnias still blooming in the wild tangle of the west garden.

The rescued white buddleia in its third summer. Will it survive another winter?

Nasturtiums are among the first flowers to feel the frost. 

These were late starters.

A tangle of nasturtiums, propped with sticks in the old pot by the greenhouse door.

October--autumn at its best--with the lingering reminders of summer--and the hint of winter to come.