Late Afternoon Walk-About

Bursts of rain this evening after the setting sun painted the east meadow and north wooded boundary with shades of bronze and gold, outlining the nearly leafless trees against a sky that shifted quickly from blue-with-clouds to brooding shades of steely grey and pewter.

We are experiencing that yearly transition between autumn and the official onset of winter, with a bit less than a month before the December solstice signals the incremental return of daylight.

Morning hours have been wrapped in clinging fog, damp and chilly. 

The sun breaks through by noon some days, wobbling in and out from behind scudding clouds, spreading shafts of pale light across our wood floors.

Sheets pegged on the back porch lines are brought in still damp, a faint scent of wet leaves and drifting wood smoke caught in their folds as I bundle them into the dryer.

The red leaves of burning bush have been whipped away by the rain and wind; under-story beeches along the ravines and a few oaks still wear battered and faded leaves. 

This morning the tall fog-wreathed hickory at the bottom of the sloping back lawn was barely visible. 

If I position my head just so on my pillow the top of the tree is perfectly framed in the center pane of my west window, fore-shortened by the lay of the land below the house. 

The curtain of fog shifted and I watched a grey squirrel float from branch to branch, skitter down the trunk, scamper back up to swing on a limb. The ground there is littered with both hickory nuts and acorns. The squirrels have been busy gathering the nuts and shoving them into hastily scooped depressions in the mossy turf. Walking there, the ground is spongy, perhaps tunneled with burrows and nut stores. 

At 4 p.m. I stepped into my boots, pulled on a jacket and headed to the mailbox. Where the gravel lane bends around the edge of our neighbor's pasture two kildeers scuttled before me, not calling noisily as they do in nesting season, just trundling silently under the fence, disappearing into the damp grass. 

Back at the house I dumped the 'junk' mail on the table, shed my too warm jacket, picked up my old point and shoot camera. 

I walked twice around the loop paths, came into the house thinking I should start supper, but was drawn  outside in the strange shifting light and shadows to walk the path again.

Trees along the north ravine edge.

Looking toward the house, gardens, and barn, the lane in front of me darkly shadowed.

 A closer shot of the sun-gilded tree line.

Winter wheat sown 5th November as cover crop on garden.

The winter wheat emerged more slowly in the ruts made by the tractor wheels.

Skyline near the kitchen scrap dump.

Sun sliding behind trees toward the southwest. 

The edge of darkness.

Sharing with you, a yellow pansy raising her head after the rain.

 

The Shapes of Trees

Trees edging the north ravine

I spent several hours Wednesday afternoon pruning roses and removing frost blighted annuals from various pots and tubs near the front porch. 

Later I walked the loop path around the front and back meadows.

It is in this time of year that I become very aware of the structure and shape of trees as leaves fall and bare branches are etched against the sky. 

The papery chalices of the tulip poplar cling long after the stiff bright blooms of early spring fade, still there after leaves have turned golden and drifted to the ground.

This hickory lost most of its leaves earlier than some on the property. 

Clusters of polished brown nuts still garnish the limbs, though many have fallen to the ground below, crunching under our shoes as we walk along the path.

In my native Vermont most of the hickories were of the distinctive 'shag-bark' variety, more easily identified.

On Tuesday, striding along near the north-west boundary line, I halted as a swoosh of leaves gusted down and a group of startled sparrows flew up from the scrubby underbrush. For a few seconds there was a mingling of swirling leaves and small fluttering bodies.

Burning bush [euonymous alatus] has naturalized in hedgerows and woods, the seeds eaten and dispersed by birds.

At our first Kentucky home former owners had brought one hardy specimen from the woods and planted it outside the dining area sliding glass doors. Untrimmed for several years it had grown to touch the eaves of the small one-story cottage. I managed to lop it down to the height of the door and a pair of cardinals promptly established a nest there. A rather undistinguished shrub through much of the year it blazes into crimson glory in autumn.

 

The gardener/landscaper who covets them can spend quite a bit on various hybrid cultivars sold in nursery pots. 

I've been toying with the thought of establishing several along the west side of the house where my prior  gardening efforts have been less than impressive. 

I trundled down carrying a shovel, pried up a fairly small specimen, and interred it at the end of a terraced bed. I had poked my head in the shop and mentioned to Jim that with all his variety of tractors and equipment it was a pity he didn't have a 'digger' that could scoop out the shrubs I wanted.

I was surprised when he popped round the edge of the house and announced that he was willing to serve as 'the digger!'

There were plenty of shrubs of different sizes to choose from growing just beyond the path.

J. announced that he 'wouldn't do this for just anybody!'

I was meant to be impressed!

I was sent to fetch the old wheelbarrow and load each disinterred bush.

Jim set in three large ones in a line under my west bedroom window while I arranged several smaller ones along the raised bed.

Thimble-cat heard us working outside the window, climbed onto the sill and poked grey paws through the partly opened sash, stood on her head, smacked at the glass, wanting our attention.

Its a bit late in the fall to be transplanting although the ground seldom freezes to more than a depth of several inches. The native burning bush seems to have a rather shallow spreading root system, fairly easy to move.

It will be sometime in the spring before I know if the transplants have taken; pruning and shaping will be needed. I don't know the growth rate.  My hope is that the shrubs will fill in, making a loose hedge, providing shelter for birds. 

I had previously planted up one of the large black bins hoping it would provide blooms outside the window. At that time we placed flat creek rocks around the edge of the bin and beneath the window area. 

Today Jim shoved the bin aside to make room for a burning bush--the tractor will be needed to haul the bin to a more useful location.

I pried up many of the flat stones and carried them around front, fitting them carefully over the soil in the planter tubs. That should deter the outside cats from using the planters as winter latrines. They can stretch out on the warm rocks on sunny days and trot off to the edge of the garden to do their 'business!'

Landscaping and gardening are on-going projects. Plants that may flourish for several seasons suddenly fade away or are overtaken by those that are more vigorous. Some plants simply aren't happy with the soil, available sunlight, or moisture in the area where I have optimistically plonked them. 

There will likely be a few more warm afternoons when I can continue tidying and trimming, meanwhile pondering what the next gardening season may hold.

For the next several months I will be idling along the path, head tipped back to admire the trees as they raise bare branches skyward.

 

The First [Unofficial] Day Of Winter

Late afternoon on Saturday, 8th November.

After a foggy Sabbath morning the sun appeared, the sky was deep blue above the trees, many of which having shed their lower leaves, still wore gilded crowns.

We took advantage of the relative warmth to walk the meadow loop. Jim made one round, the outdoor cats, Willis and Shelby sauntered behind me on a second loop.

At 10: 45 in the evening when I shut down my PC it was 53 F.

Sunday morning was dark, a sullen grey sky, a bitter wind seeping in through  my slightly open bedroom window.

As the day went on the wind picked up, making our mid-afternoon walk a bit less than pleasant.

By 8 p.m. it was 36 F, and by 10:30 in the evening a few flakes of wet snow swirled beyond the front porch light.

My brain was too busy to shut down; none of my usual mental ploys to induce sleep were effective.

I was still awake as the faint grey of morning began to lighten the sky beyond my west window.

Thimble-cat insisted that I should be out of bed by 8 a.m. sleepless night or not.

A sunless morning, 28 F and  light snow skimming the ground.

More than a month until the Winter Solstice and the slow gaining of daylight, but the sense of winter has blustered in.

All day the sky segued from cloud-strewn blue grey to blue-black, with now and then sun shining through for 5 minutes before a bluster of wind sent leaves spinning from trees; bursts of snow drove horizontally, obliterating the tree-shapes along the north and south ravines. 

The pansies will likely revive and thrust up a few blooms through the winter.

Moments of sunshine thawed blooms that have persisted through the autumn weeks.

By afternoon they were drooping.

Warmer temps are promised mid-week--time to clear the tubs and planters.

Keeping the cats out of the soil will be a challenge.

During one of the brief lulls I bundled up for a trek to the mailbox which stands in the verge where the lane connects with the main road.

I stuck my head in the shop door to tell Jim where I was heading. He was sprawled on an old quilt, tinkering something under the front bumper of a truck. Willis-cat was curled smugly beside him, supervising.

Jim crawled out, found cap and gloves and we ventured up the meadow path, past the pond and out to the road.

Coming back we were facing the wind--the kind of sharp blasts that sting the face, cause eyes to water and nose to drip.

We persevered around the lower boundary loop, crunching through snow-stiffened leaves.

Tulip poplar leaves have caught the snow; oak and sassafras leaves are strewn  about.

 A leaf from the paulownia tomentosa [Princess Tree]  caught my eye.

 A handful of frost-crisped rose buds went limp, petals browning as soon as they were brought inside.

A sunny view before the next flurry of snow and wind.

Laundry didn't go out on the back porch lines as planned. 

Jim has kept the wood fire smoldering all day; using the clothes dryer in the basement has sent warmth up the stairwell.

Sweet potatoes, peeled, sliced and baked in a drizzle of melted butter and maple syrup, cauliflower roasted with a pear/balsamic vinegrette for flavor; a small quiche filled with chopped turkey bacon, onion, a bit of diced tomato, black olives, Cabots cheddar cheese.

The cold spell is meant to moderate later in the week; if the wind drops I can work outside tidying away the remnants of summer's plantings.

Today, after dashing out to empty cat litter, hurrying to toss kitchen garbage, and that hasty wind-driven walk to the mailbox, I've been grateful for the coziness of the house, for the clean sheets and quilts to layer on beds, a substantial supper to sustain us til morning.

 

Walking Into The Moon

Sundown and the simultaneous rising of the full moon nearly caught us unaware. The autumn week when clocks turn back to standard time always feels off-kilter.

Sunlight was already retreating from the east meadow when Jim remarked, 'If we're going to walk this evening we'd better get out there.'

I hastily stacked and rinsed supper dishes; Jim was waiting in the yard as I stood yanking at the recalcitrant zipper on my jacket. He reached out a gloved hand and began towing me up the gravel drive.  I scuffed along trying to avoid stepping on the spill of black walnuts that spread like yellow tennis balls waiting to roll under my feet.

Intent on my feet I nearly missed the emergence of the moon, huge, smokey red-gold, the super 'Beaver Moon.'

In a vaguely academic way I know that planet earth revolves around the sun, the moon rides a slightly elliptical path around the earth, the two mysteriously wonderful functions creating an endless cycle of daylight and night time, seasons of sunlit growth and the fallow time of winter. 

Jim tries to give me a simplified textbook explanation while I stubbornly persist in the sense of the moon rapidly changing position, moving with us as we walk up the slope of the pasture.

The sun falls into the southwest edge of the ravine, the moon, sailing upward, escapes the treetops that bound the northeast edge of our long meadow. 

 Hickory nuts crunch under our shoes, pressed into the coarse grass to mingle with the broken shells of last fall's crop. 

It is cooling rapidly as the sun goes down, a damp chill creeping out from the tangled trees as we round the eastern property line.

I rock back on my heels to avoid stepping on a dark 'wooly bear' caterpillar trundling weightlessly through the roughly cropped verge of the path.

The outdoor cats, Willis and Shelby, have taken a short cut from the garden to meet us as we stride down the slope. They follow erratically, halting to sniff and fuss over things we cannot smell or see. Willis 'marks' the shed door, tail twitching with the effort. Shelby skitters between our moving feet, flings herself down to roll, white belly fur bright in the fading light 

A squirrel dashes in front of us, races across the mossy incline to fling himself up the trunk of a leaning maple, bouncing from there to the higher branches of the hickory tree that glows bronze and gold in the setting sun.

Jim is ready to go inside after the half mile loop brings us back to the front dooryard; I can't bear to go in and shut myself away from the colors sweeping across the sky. 

The sun has plunged into the ravine leaving behind a wash of pale saffron. Hands in jacket pockets I walk back up the path. The moon is huge, riding a low arc. Walking toward it I am surprised to notice that my shadow, crazily thinned and elongated walks before me. The slender fruit trees our neighbor has planted to line the gravel lane likewise are casting shadows, thin leafless stick-shadows of deeper green against the rough grass. Turning I am awed by the flush of color in the western sky: pale yellow, ochre, coral, rose-gold, flaring, shifting and fading as I watch. 

Walking parallel to the boundary fence I stoop to pick up a bird's nest lying beneath the large hickory. How did I not see it on the first round of our walk?

Examining the nest in the light of morning I discover the inside is lined with long silver hairs

Are they mine? There are coarser hairs woven into the rim, perhaps from the neighbor's elderly white mule.

I consider how I push a dustmop around the floors nearly every morning going out into the yard to shake off the gathered fluff--cat hair--always cat hair--strands of my long hair, miniscule particles of whatever has landed on the floor during the day.

There is a tiny curl of thread in the bottom of the nest--the same bland shade of thread I use in my sewing machine. A fuzzy white oval of what might be quilt batting--or a seed head--is embedded in the side of the nest. I'm curious, but don't want to risk deconstructing this little creation by prodding at the components.

Willis, walking with us each evening.

The moon, a day past full splendor, did not rise until well after dark this evening. 

We walked under a sky still sharply blue as the sun slid behind the hills. 

The day has been breezy, more leaves have drifted from the maples and tulip poplars. The sycamores are nearly bare, their huge leaves lying like crumpled paper on the ground. Hickories are still russet-gold, here and there a frail dogwood is a splash of deep crimson. 

Frost Moon is another name for this November moon, but as yet we've had no killing frost. 

The earth will continue to turn, the waning gibbous moon will move toward its dark monthly phase. 

Evening walks will soon become afternoon strolls with weeks of weather that call for warm jackets, scarves, gloves, sturdy boots.

In a world that seems so fraught and uncertain the timeless turning of the seasons is a comfort.