Portrait of a Reluctant Soldier

Those who have been with me on this blog since I began writing in 2009 may recall a series of posts created using excerpts from the WWI Letters of Lawrence H. Ross.   I still consider it one of my better accomplishments of creative writing.

Great Uncle Lawrence was one of the few men in my family to see active service, and in recent years I have spent a quiet few moments each November reflecting on his life and death and their impact on my Mother's family.

Lawrence was an unlikely soldier. His letters give no hint of his political interests or his thoughts on America's involvement in the war prior to his call up for the draft.  Rather, the letters convey a testy astonishment, a sense of disbelief that he has actually been herded onto a train bound for Camp Devens, and amazement that he has passed the physical exams and been issued a uniform!  He even entertained the idea, rather dramatically expressed, that a swift death would be more welcome than enduring basic training!

Lawrence grew up in his maternal grandfather's comfortable white farmhouse, in a small Adirondack town where the family name had appeared on the census each decade since the first formal listing in 1790.  His great grandfather was described as "a prosperous farmer" with a variety of business interests.

Lawrence's mother died when he was less than two months short of his second birthday, her life bleeding away in the painful hours following the birth of her third child.  The woman Lawrence loved and called "Mother" was the quiet girl who came to help care for the motherless children and became in due time his father's second wife.

His childhood was seemingly uneventful. School, church, a closely knit neighborhood and extended family framed his boyhood years. 

As he grew into young manhood the news notes of the local paper began to reference him: he taught a Sunday School class; he played the violin, his sisters were both accomplished pianists, his uncle and cousin next door played the banjo. The whole family sang with a natural gift for harmony.  They made music for church services and provided entertainment at the Echo Mountain Hall--the social center run by the local graphite mine works.  Never a handsome fellow with his noticeable ears and thick spectacles, he was always well dressed and dapper. His was a serious nature, but he understood good clean fun.

By the time Lawrence registered for the draft in June, 1917, his grandparents had passed away and his parents, his older sister and brother-in-law had moved to the Vermont side of Lake Champlain where they purchased a farm.  News notes indicate that he helped with the move during the winter of 1914, and made frequent visits to the new family home.

He was employed as a 'clerk' in the Ticonderoga, N.Y. firm of Wood and Barton.

The Ticonderoga Sentinel makes frequent reference to F.B. Wood, an enterprising business man and entrepreneur who married a cousin of Lawrence's mother.  It seems likely that Lawrence boarded in the Wood household.

Forrest Wood owned a Maxwell Touring Car and Lawrence often served as his chauffeur on both pleasure and business trips. 

I treasure a photo which shows Lawrence with several family members and the local school teacher--who boarded with them--all installed in the open car, ready for an outing.

Induction into the army whisked Lawrence from a sheltered world of kinfolk and familiar places into the coarse, teeming, noisy, frantic scramble of a half-built military encampment.

News notes of the day and later published recollections testify to the extreme cold of the winter of 1917-1918.

The rambling barracks hastily constructed at Camp Devens in Ayer, MA were mere wooden shells, unheated and drafty through much of the winter.

Lawrence suffered from the cold: his chronic "catarrh" plagued him; he had been afflicted with psoriasis for years, and the rough wool of his uniform tormented his raw skin; his draft registration card notes the injured right hand--the tips of two fingers missing and his thumb stiff from a childhood accident.

Lawrence  found that in spite of his dependence on thick spectacles he was a good marksman, and in his letters he describes the long hours of drill. He took a certain pleasure in the care of his rifle. When barked at by the sergeant for his slower than usual speed in shooting off a round one frigid morning, he could only hold up his mutilated hand, barely flexible.  His handwriting, never graceful, deteriorated to an uneven scrawl on such days.  Often he had to put a letter aside unfinished with the comment that his hand was too stiff to hold a pencil. He was sent for an interview with his commanding officer, who declared that Lawrence's experience as a chauffeur would qualify him for transfer to a motor unit.  Lawrence waited for the anticipated change, but the orders never came through.

The camp was quarantined for measles.  Lawrence didn't have measles but he wasn't allowed weekend leave to visit his family.  He and his fiancee, Letha, struggled with the decision whether to marry during wartime or wait until his hoped for return.

As the interminable winter dragged toward a muddy spring, the decision was taken out of Lawrence and Letha's hands. After weeks of anticipating his "orders" suddenly Lawrence was bundled onto a train, destination unknown.  He shortly found himself on a troop ship, headed for France--there was no chance for a last visit home.

In spite of his resentment of the war's intrusion on his comfortable life, Lawrence's letters often displayed a wry sense of humor.  That he was most terribly homesick is very evident. His was a nature that craved order, cleanliness and quiet. He wrote longingly of home-cooked meals, of remembered family gatherings.  He spoke hopefully of a time when he would again make music with his father, his sisters and his cousins.

He saved up details which he couldn't commit to a censored letter, promising that when he returned "home" he would have tales to tell.

From "Somewhere in France" he wrote almost breezily of battles, of lice, of trains, of temporary "camps."

An unwilling soldier, he seemed to have settled to his assignment in a machine gunnery unit, determined to "be a man."

He wondered why letters didn't catch up to him; he scrawled a list of small items, toiletries and such, that he hoped the family could purchase and send.

Lawrence died on 1 August, 1918 when a shell landed in the trench where he was stationed with his

machine gun crew.

Eventually the family would learn that he had taken part in the Second Battle of the Marne. 

I have often wondered how events might have differed in my Mother's family had Lawrence lived to return home, to marry Letha, raise a family.

He might have survived the war only to succumb to the influenza epidemic which swept both Europe and America.

Knowing something of his high-strung nature [a family trait] I wonder if he could have put behind him the deafening noise and unspeakable horrors of his months at the front.

At the memorial service held in his home church, his cousin and employer, F.B. Wood, declared,

"I have never known a more conscientious man."

The Ways of Willow

My large tubs of begonias brought in to winter behind the piano which presently serves as a room divider.

There was a strange lack of cats on my side of the bed when I woke a bit before 6 a.m.

I stretched, snuggled more deeply into the quilt.

After a few moments small sounds seeped into my sluggish awareness.

Small thumps and pouncings from the livingroom.

Scuffing down the hallway I came upon a rogues' gallery of cats who were viewing the above

desecration of my angel-wing begonia.

Caught in the act was Willow, happily scrabbling potting earth, rattling dislodged bamboo stakes.

Her brother Wilbur [who still dislikes humans] did not appear to be actively involved in the

vandalism at this point.

At my smothered cry, "OH, NO! What have you done to my plants?" Wilbur skittered under the table.

The rest of the feline pride arranged their furry faces into expressions of disapproval: "We would

NEVER do that!"

This left Willow, a dainty paw still lifted in the act of smacking at lumps of potting soil.

The spray bottle of water which we sometimes use in vain disciplinary actions was nowhere to be seen.

"Bad kitten!" I moaned.  "What a mess!"

I picked the battered disinterred stems of the begonia out of the scattered dirt, laid them tenderly by the kitchen sink, fetched the broom and dustpan.

As I began moving plant tubs and whisking at the strewed potting soil, I chanced to notice Willow.

Far from leaving the scene in contrition, she had folded herself into a demure pose on the kitchen floor and appeared to be watching me with great interest.

I swept up the worst of the mess, brought a sack of potting earth from the garage, carefully inserted the traumatised roots back into the pot and stood the broken stalks in a jar of water.

When J. emerged I lamented afresh, "Can't have anything decent with all these cats--furniture shredded, plants uprooted--impossible to display a bit of china--"

I set out cat food begrudingly, slatted about making coffee, still grumbling.

Standing at the counter, waiting for the coffee to perk, I felt a familiar warmth sliding around my bare ankles:

Willow's slim stripey body weaving about my slippers, her small warm skull rubbing, amber eyes raised in winsome appeal.

I picked her up. "Purr. Purr, purr."

Vaccuum cleaner trundled out, various plants moved downstairs to the old table under the flourescent light--where they may not be safe from the prowlings of cats who decline to stay on the floor.

I am seriously considering the incarceration of my treasured [battered] begonias in the coat closet overnight to protect them from curious cats!

The Domestic Scene

I slept poorly last night, but woke at the usual time to lie still for a few moments,

wedged about with cats. 

The daylight slotting through the shutters has a grey quality and I hear a swhooshing of wind.

The cats have an uncanny ability to register the exact moment when I shift from slumber mode to the first blinks of wakefullness.

A human awake is a human who should be tending cats!

While I stretch creakily beneath the covers and contemplate the ordering of the day, the cats tread heavily upon me; they meow; they purr. Furry paws reach from the bedside stand to prod, gently but insistantly. Mima plods across my pillow, pulling my long hair.

 Charlie, sitting on the floor, reaches up to whack Mrs. Beasley, who growls. 

Teasel brings her beautiful face close to mine, making throaty sounds of encouragement.

Lingering in bed is not an option.

In the livingroom I open the curtains and stand gazing out at the cloudy morning. Cats mill about my ankles, pleading for breakfast.  They make meaningful dashes toward the kitchen, returning to herd me in the right direction.  I fend them off long enough to heave two chunks of dry maple into the embers of last nights fire, then follow them to the kitchen.

This morning performance is not about lack of food or imminent deprivation of any sort.

It is a ritual as firmly established as our morning cup of coffee, and until that spoonful each of tinned food is doled out, there is no peace.

The weather report didn't call for rain, the air was warmish and it seemed a good day in spite of the clouds  to wash sheets and let them flap dry in the wind. 

Fallen leaves were scudding about the driveway and into the carport. When I opened the sliding door into the cat enclosure the curtains billowed and surged.

With the cats sorted I took my coffee in by the fire, opened my laptop to check email and skim through my favorite blogs.

Gusts of wind shrieked down the chimney. Cats hurtled in and out the sliding door, tangling in the blowing curtain, colliding with each other, hissing and snarling testily.

Catching their restlessness, I put on my wellies and a tattered hoodie. I stood at the edge of the carport watching Willis and Co as they chased whirling leaves and wrestled each other in the gravel of the driveway.

Pebbles spotted me and trumpeted from the edge of her pasture.

As I started up the path she pounded toward the barn, whirled, kicked out her back legs, and plunged back down the fence line, snorting.

J. emerged, drove the lawn mower out of the barn and began circling the dooryard, chewed up leaves and short grass spewing in his wake.

While bed linens churned in the washer, I dealt with litter boxes.

Approaching my litter dump at the far end of the back pasture I was startled by the sharp warning coughs of deer and looked into the woods in time to see three whitetails plunging into the dark stand of trees.

There was an undercurrent of disturbance to the morning--animals all acting twitchy as grey clouds billowed across the sky.

The air smelled of woodsmoke and woodpiles, of cut grass and decaying leaves.

I fetched a collander and snipped Swiss chard from the late summer planting.

As I pegged out the flannel sheets and the pillowcases the first tentative drops of rain

pelted the back of my neck.

"You said it wouldn't rain!" I accused J. as he trundled past with a wheelbarrow load of wood.

"I only read you the weather report," he retorted, "I didn't research it!"

Rain blew on gusts of wind, faltered, began again. The sheets grew sodden, hanging limply, then straining at the wooden clothes pegs as the wind veered round from the north.

Pebbles eyed us from the door to her lean-to--likely calculating the possibility that J. would unwittingly serve up a second breakfast of grain.

I headed for the house, to a hot shower and dry clothes.

The rain quit, leaving damp grass and a slick of wet in the driveway.

From the front window I noted a convocation of robins, perhaps two dozen of them, bustling and picking.

A half-hearted sun played hide and seek, glowing through the branches of the burning bush.

The cats found the yard too damp for their liking and sought warm places in the house to nap.

I kneaded a batch of bread, started supper.  J. went to help G. construct a pet yard.

I fetched in the still damp sheets and bundled them into the dryer, put the kettle on for tea.

Evening draws in so early now, the days shortening toward the solstice, little more than a month away.

Twilight stained the sky with lavender behind the lingering grey clouds. The branches of the maples, bare now of their leaves, moved soundlessly.

In the east, the moon rode a sky of palest apricot.

I seldom take photos of the moon as the night time setting for my camera produces an effect darker than the reality.

I am intrigued by the tracery of bare branches and the moon caught in their frame.

Inside to stay as darkness falls.

The loaves are pulled from the oven, the kitchen is cozy with the smell of baking.

J. cuts a thick slab of bread while it is still warm.

I slice one for myself, turn the kettle on again.

We shut doors, draw curtains, settle into the house for the night.

Autumn Afternoon Walk-About

There have been several days of 'Indian Summer' weather following the chilly days of rain last week.

By mid-morning today the temperature was 69-70 degrees F.  [My convertor gives that as 21 C.]

J. and D. have been cutting up the big dead maple which crashed over the fence into the edge of the cornfield.  The woods don't belong to us, so I haven't walked there.

As you can see, there is tangled under-growth and thick ropes of trumpet vine.

The leaves of this oak are a deep burgandy color, back-lit here by the late afternoon sun to a garnet red.

Deep shadows fall across the shorn cornfield and enfold the old barns.

Mute testimony to a death in the cornfield.

D. and J. suspect the wild turkey may have been a victim of a coyote.

The breastbone of the turkey as well as several heaps of featherws were strewn among the husks.

I mentally add turkeys to the list of wild creatures foraging in the corn before the combine arrived: deer, raccoons and possums all had their pickings.

Hawkeye Belle continues to bloom in spite of frosty nights.

The roses have opened in a jug of water--I cherish them in spite of the frost-seared edges.

The red one is Double Knock-Out.

In town today for errands we noticed that the planting of Double Knock-Out around the courthouse is in gorgeous bloom.  It appears that they were pruned back late in the summer and inspired to burst out in

response to autumn rain and sunshine.

Most of the golden leaves have fluttered down from the maple beyond the carport.

J. thinks this one is a "hard maple"--the sugar maple of New England.

While J. and D. were limbing the dead maple and carving up chunks for firewood, Devin called me out to see two sections of limb which had been stuffed with corn kernels, probably by an industrious squirrel.

Taking a closer look I realized some of the kernels are sprouting. I have always wondered if the squirrels remember in the cold of winter where they have created these well stocked larders. If that is the case, there will be a creature wandering along the cornfield come January, perplexed by the loss of his cache.

Chocolate-Chip Fudge Brownies: A Recipe Resurrected

I have probably owned only a few dozen cookbooks over the years and many of those have disappeared in our many upheavals of packing and moving.

I tend to use over and over the recipes which epitomize the best of those I've tested.

I use recipes only for baked goods, sometimes substituting or tweeking ingredients.

Recipes are clipped and taped into the front of cookbooks, written out on the end papers, scribbled on file cards.  More recently I've transcribed favorites to my PC.

Last week while searching for an oatmeal cookie recipe for Gina, I discovered this brownie recipe written in the front of a cookbook which I don't often use at this time.

I suspect that I copied it from a magazine--possibly Family Circle.

I stirred it up as a dessert offering when G. invited us to supper--and the brownies are even better than I remembered. I baked another batch this evening for sharing at a church fellowship lunch.

Chocolate Chip Fudge Brownies

Preheat oven to 325.

Grease a 13x9 glass baking pan.

[I used cooking spray.]

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup butter

3 Tblsps water

1 10oz pkg semis sweet choc chips [about 1 1/2 cups]*

2 tsp. vanilla

3 large eggs

1 1/4 cup flour

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp baking soda

In a heavy saucepan, combine the butter, sugar and water.

Stir over medium heat, until the mixture comes just to a boil.

Remove from heat, add the chocolate and vanilla, stirring gently until the chocolate is melted.

The mixture will be smooth and shiny.

Add the eggs, one at a time, stirring in well with a wooden spoon or a whisk after each, until incorporated.

Sift together flour, baking soda and salt.

Fold into batter, pour into prepared pan and spread smooth.

Baking directions suggest 30-35 minutes.

In my oven 30 minutes is sufficient, and I watch carefully during the last five minutes.

Remove from oven and cool in pan before cutting.

* I've been adding one square of bitter baker's chocolate with the semi-sweet chocolate chips.  I like the added richness and flavor.

These brownies are worthy of the term "decadent!"

[I've no idea how these measurements translate to whatever system of numbers might be that is used in UK recipes.

I have several English recipes I wish I could rework to US measure.]

Rainy Day Cats

A soft peach-tinted dawn gave way to mist and rain.

Trees along the road are nearly bare, tawny leaves clinging to a few along the way.

In the back yard the silver maple is realeasing her leaves.

They drift damply down to rest in a wide circle of pale gold.

A small maple nearest the house was the first to drop its leaves, back in September.

They have drifted into the herb garden, settling amongst thyme and sage.

The leaves of the sweet gum are mostly still green.

A few have colored and fallen to lie like brilliant red stars.

Teasel has chosen one of the linen shelves as a snug hideaway for a rainy day.

Teasel, being my 'darling', will not be hustled out of the towels--I'll have to remember that using the pink one will result in a face full of fluff!

Dear old Eggnog loves to watch the flicker of flames. She dreams by the hour in front of which ever

fire is burning.

Wilbur and Willow have stationed themselves by the sliding door, intent on the patter of rain drops and

 whirling leaves just beyond their noses.

Willis and his cohorts, Sadie and Sally, were on the side porch/carport promptly at 7:15

to claim their breakfast.

The tortie girls sensibly retreated to the barn when the rain blew in.

The outside felines have the choice of the 'tobacco barn' which is stacked to the rafters with this seasons' hay crop, or the nearer barn.  Devin contrived a snug house for the cats there in the loft, stacking hay bales to create a roomy covered 'cave' lined with old sleeping bags.

Willis, the contrary cat, has lodged on the wicker loveseat on the front porch.

Unfazed by the drizzle beyond the porch, he snuggles into a tattered sheepskin rug.

I've watched him from the window inside noting how his ears twitch as a current of air whisks dry leaves across the porch floor.

Two of the livingroom chairs are occupied by dozing cats.  Looking for an item J. wanted I found Mima sweetly curled in the storage closet off the outside basement stairs.

There is a cat on the bed, another on the plant table in the basement, huddled beneath the gro-light.

Charlie has curled his hairy self on the bench by the sliding doors, im-periling the already

cat-battered begonia.

I've moved an apple pie from the freezer to the oven where its spicy aroma will greet J. when he returns from installing a wood stove at G.'s house.

I made rash promises earlier this week that on the next rainy day I would [errrr!] betake myself downstairs to the family room to finish sorting my books and sewing paraphernalia.

All this observation of drowsy cats has me thinking it would be just the thing to curl up with a book--there is a comfy rocking chair alongside both the fireplace and the downstairs fire.

But [errr--again] I promised myself.

So, bolstered with a mug of tea, I'm off to the sorting

Edited to add that I was headed downstairs to my sorting, full of tea and good intentions, when J. returned and suggested that we make doughnuts--something we haven't done during the heat of spring and summer.

A cozy, sugary treat for a rainy day.

Good intentions will now resume.

Memory of Maples

Recognition of a tree as “maple tree” must have come early to me, one of those bits of knowledge so integral as to be dateless, absorbed with the increasing lexicon of names and terms which filter into a child’s mind from the conversations of surrounding adults.

Two maples stood in the front dooryard of my grandfather’s Vermont farmstead, one on either side of the graveled driveway, each spreading grey-black branches in a high, wide circle above tidy plots which I learned to call “lawn” as opposed to the rougher pastures which lay beyond the fences.

My parents, my younger sister, and I lived until I was nearly five in three rooms at the north side of Grampa Mac’s house. The room where we did everything but sleep had two windows facing out into a strip of perennial garden over-shadowed by one of the huge maples. I recall a summer morning, spoon clutched forgotten in one hand, while I watched a bird bounce about in the nearest branches, a flit of black and orange.

“A Baltimore Oriole,” said my mother, and added pragmatically, “If you’ll finish your cereal, you can go out in the yard and watch them.”


That particular slideshow of memory slips into darkness, leaving me with the brilliant colors of the bird outside the window—and the congealing bowl of soggy cereal which must be dealt with before I could gain the relative freedom of the chicken wire enclosed “play yard.”

A few years later when sister C. and I were in the early grades of school, Grampa Mac hung swings for us in the maples. Mine was in that large tree which brooded benevolently over the front of the house, C.’s dangled from a branch of the maple across the drive, well within shouting distance. Two lengths of stout rope were purchased from the farm supply store; Grampa Mac sawed lengths of salvaged plank, bored rope sized holes with his hand auger, sanded the rough edges which might snag a vulnerable bottom.

I was impressed to learn that the maples were there, seemingly as old and towering, when my mother and Uncle Bill were children. Our swings were the continuation of an older tradition.

I can’t know the year when the maples were set in place, twin guardians of the home, yet beside me on my desk lies the enlargement of an old photo showing the farmhouse, the familiar bell perched in its wooden cradle on the shed roof. The resident family stands posed about the dooryard, all faces turned toward the unseen photographer, and into the edges of the picture intrude the leafy branches of the maples. Tracing the names shakily written on an accompanying scrap of paper, I’ve placed the date circa 1887.

The growth of a sugar maple declines after 140 to 150 years, but an old-growth maple tree can live for several centuries in favorable conditions.

[Vintage photo supplied by Christy Alger]



The maples of my Grampa Mac’s dooryard stood silent witness to many generations before I arrived to dangle in my rope swing and stare up into their lofty crowns.

Even now, I can’t begin to calculate the hours spent in that swing, under the maple tree. It was a homing point in all seasons.

In winter I brushed snow from the wooden seat, gripped the cold-stiffened rope with mittened paws, drifted slowly, head back, to take in the tracery of dark branches and twigs against the blue sky of a February day. In March I hovered at Grampa Mac’s heels as he “tapped” the old tree, setting the metal spigots, hanging the sap buckets, pointing out the small scars of past seasons that marked the years of making maple syrup.

Springtime was a dreamy time in the swing, delighting in the warmth of afternoon sun filtering through new maple leaves of palest green, hearing the busy chirp of robins as they selected nest sites along the sturdier branches.

In summer the shade of the old tree was heavy, darkly and thickly green. Swinging created a small welcome breeze through my hair even on the scorching afternoons of July days. In all but the heaviest rain the dense canopy of leaves provided a shelter, only the occasional splatter dripping from the green layers to land on my shoulders or trickle down my neck. Birds chirped and muttered in the high branches while beyond their circle the grass shimmered with wet.

In autumn the dooryard maples warmed to a blaze of yellow and crimson leaves, an echo of the trees ranking the rise of woodland beyond the west pasture. An overcast day scarcely dimmed the golden light beneath the tree. Leaves drifted down day by day, to be raked into great heaps each crisp afternoon when school was done—inviting me to swing high and launch myself with a well-timed leap into the crunchy depths of the pile.

Robins and orioles departed, but the autumn cry of Canadian geese bugled overhead. Finally, when only a few crumpled yellow-brown leaves still clung to the branches, the blue sky of October rode above the black etching of limbs and twigs which drew the eye up and up into dizzying clear heights.

I missed the maples of New England during the twelve years of living in Wyoming. There, in autumn, the aspens shivered, gold-painted against dark spruce in the mountain passes, the delicate spade-shaped leaves flying before fierce winds and early snow. The leaves of the cottonwoods which crowded close to the looping irrigation ditches turned rusty, rattling in the gusts and plummeting down to decay on frosty grass already turning to the brown of winter.

A dear friend sent me a maple leaf from a tree growing in the dooryard of her house in Maine; a leaf carefully pressed with a hot iron between sheets of waxed paper, the quintessential autumn craft recalled from childhood. The edges eventually crumbled, still I treasured it.

I ordered a book of essays, tore open the padded envelope and felt a sharp stab of recognition and longing: the book cover was a collage of leaf photos by the author, the center image that of a red maple leaf, so finely captured that it seemed I could catch the autumn scent of a dew-dappled leaf, run a finger along the delicate veining.

Maples grow in Kentucky, the eastern central state we chose for a retirement home. Viewing this little cottage on a March morning, Jim instantly identified the maples standing about the dooryard. These are not the “sugar maples” [acer saccharum] of New England, but more likely a variety of “red maple”[ acer rubrum] the ones we called “soft" or "swamp maples” there for their habit of growing on low ground where they flamed into glory early in September, weeks ahead of their stately cousins towering in forest and sugar bush.

Haskell Rogers, the elderly gentleman who lived here before us, tells us that he brought maple saplings from the nearby woods shortly after the small house was raised in 1980. There are at least two, possibly three, variants of maples among those set closely around the dooryard. One resembles the silver maple which my father lovingly tended in Vermont---slimmer, pointier leaves, turning late in the fall to greeny-yellow. Three of the slender, silver-trunked maples have already given up their rusty red leaves. Only one tree still clings to its billow of brilliant burnished foliage.

I gather individual leaves, laying them out to compare. I snap photos, bring them up on the computer screen, puzzle over the descriptions and photos in on-line articles.

[I like knowing the precise names of trees—and flowers—and birds. With the maples, as with so many other searches, I fail to pin down the subtle shapes and markings that could differentiate one from another.]

 I stand at the kitchen window and watch as leaves of gold and russet spin gently down.  The maples lure me from the house on these late autumn days, drawing me under the arc of their spreading branches, as faraway maples did for so many decades.  I go outside to stand still, listening, as leaves swish and scud along the ground before a wind that nips out of the north.

High above the silver maple the trumpeting of wild geese rings through wood smoke scented air, their dark wings and stretched necks appliquéd against a sky of autumn blue.

Another autumn; another turning of the season toward the chill winds and grey skies of winter; autumn also in my own span of years; autumn to live in a little house on a gentle hill, in a dooryard set round with maples.