Well, it’s another year since I started these weekly proclamations of joy, and I’d like to again to thank my handfuls of faithful readers that respond just enough to keep me going. And while I don’t have the readership of, say, Conan Doyle or J. K. Rawling, the new season seems a fine moment to comment on the changes that humans and nature bring, for better or worse. It’s also a nice time for me to steal bits and pieces of last year’s ode so I don’t have to start from scratch.
The gardens are harbingers of fall. The Rose of Sharon and hydrangeas blossom in August, and the holly berries have turned to bright red – sure signs that cool weather is coming. The nurseries have a few pansies back – we haven’t seen those since April. And the burning bush is slowly turning to red. It’s that time of year when I have to think about replacing some of the things in my containers. They’ve persevered so well over the summer, but the geraniums are shriveling up and the petunias are wondering, “why bother?” I can justify the cost in my mind in June and July, but now, Is it really worth it, with just a month or less of warmish weather? I don’t think so – I’ll just let them slowly die off until . . . . they get the gentle toss on the compost of nature.
The pumpkin and apple spice seasons are in full swing, and while I’d been putting off the tingling sensation as long as I could, I’m now, in late September fully embracing it. Yesterday was a nice, crisp 82 degrees, and today is supposed to be approaching 90. So much for that fall chill in the air. We’ll have to wait until October fully embraces us. Mosquitos are once again spreading viruses we never heard of in past times. I never worried about the birdbath being kept empty. When you got a mosquito bite, it wasn’t a big deal. Now, if one gets in the house, we overreact and spray everywhere. How did this happen? (I’m still not sure if what we’re spraying around isn’t worse than anything the mosquitos can dish out.) And the ticks – where did Lyme Disease come from? It’s like the insects are taking revenge on us for their declining species and numbers, and they’re not going without a fight.
Few of us still remember a time when pumpkin meant the orange thing on the front porch. At Halloween, we’d carve a face – everyone knows that’s what pumpkins are really for. At Thanksgiving, they would provide their last service and become a pie. Now everything is pumpkin. All day, every day, streaming live. Breads, ice cream, muffins, donuts, lattes, candles. They’re everywhere. We used to head to the farm stand to buy a couple of beauties for decoration. They’d look majestic and bold until the squirrels and chipmunks discovered them and reduced them to what looked like a surgery gone horribly wrong. I was walking by a display at a discount store of “foam” pumpkins. I thought it might be rather funny to put out a couple of those, but the squirrels have enough to deal with emotionally. It would throw them off their nut-gathering in a frightful way. Now you can buy real pumpkins large and small at the grocery store – right next to the bales of hay. I know – when did that happen? Of course, we have “great pumpkins” everywhere. At a local county fair last year, someone brought a 2,500 pumpkin. It was in the paper, so I’m not making this up. He won the title of “Pumpkin Master” or “Pumpkin Ruler” or something official. He has, and I didn’t believe it either, a special fertilizer for growing these massive pumpkins. What do you even do with one that big? Put it on display in the front yard, or bake like, 1,000 pies? Or sell it to a coffee company and extend the Pumpkin Spice season to Valentine’s Day. No, that won’t work – we’ll have a flavor overlap and a major confrontation with the peppermint and cinnamon swirl people.
Our apple orchard next door is in full swing, and apples, like pumpkins, are going viral. Apple spice everything. Every year, I look forward to apple cider donuts. I think it’s the name that has enormous appeal. The donuts themselves never quite reach expectations, because the flavors are, shall we say, muted at best, and they seem to dry out like old parchment in a couple of days. Oh, well, I’ll buy and eat them just so I can say I’ve had them. Will also buy a bag or two of the local apples for Apple Crisp and Apple Brown Betty. Does anyone know who Brown Betty was? I hope I’m not citing anything insensitive. The peaches and nectarines are just going past their runway appearances. This spring, I bought a small peach tree for out front because the blossoms were so nice. It’s small now, only about four feet tall, but it did reward me with three peaches about the size of walnuts. One fell to the ground mysteriously one night, and I presume was consumed by one of our legion of wee critters, and another was a big score for ants. The third I brought in and held as rather a trophy until it went by and couldn’t be eaten. I’ll wait until next year to build the farm stand.
Fall is that last true burst of color before everything fades to whites, grays, and muddy browns. The trees here in New England put on a vivid display. That’s probably why Columbus selected October for his holiday. He must have been deeply into vibrant colors. It’s the first opportunity for people to over-decorate their houses since Easter. Stalks of corn, more bales of hay, and chrysanthemums are everywhere. As a gardener, it saddens me when, in mid-August, I see rows and rows of mums appearing in the nurseries. I don’t particularly like them, and gravitate more to asters, which at least have the advantage of coming back next year. Mums look spectacular for about a week, then you have to keep picking off all the dead blossoms to keep them looking ok. Unlike other flowering plants, each mum has thousands of blossoms, and they wilt by the hundred. It takes forever to pick them over. They also have tender stalks that seem to break off when you just look at them.
Mixed with the excitement, there’s also a time of sadness, or longing. Coffee and my newspaper on the screened porch won’t be a “thing” again until May. The outdoor plants are looking pathetic – straggly, brown around the edges, almost begging for the compost heap. It’s a time that we put away the patio furniture and cover up the porch rocker. I delay this as long as possible – and some years, I’m brushing snow off everything. It’s the season for putting out mousetraps in the basement, putting down the storm windows, lots of animals become road pizza as they desperately gathered winter provisions, flocks of geese are honking on their way south, turning on the heat, hunkering down. Many from around here head south to enjoy the last few weeks of hurricane season.
Remember that office supply store ad that was hilarious – “They’re going back”? The father is dancing down the aisle with the shopping cart, while the kids walked zombie-like behind him, shell-shock on their faces. If memory serves, “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” was playing in the background. Let’s face it. Fall is not a time for children. It’s tailor-made for us older folks. The roads are less traveled and we can get into restaurants for breakfast without an hour wait. There’s a world of color for us to explore – at 35 miles per hour, our preferred speed, in the Oldsmobile. We’ll savor the last bits of road construction before the snow flies. We’ll tear up every road in New England that wasn’t attacked by a backhoe over the summer. There must be four or five miles of pavement somewhere that weren’t touched. The power companies make their contributions too by cutting down or trimming trees of anything remotely colorful.
So, sit back and munch an apple cider donut. Pop over to your favorite big chain coffee shop for a fresh pumpkin muffin baked in the Carolinas before the last hurricane. Put an Apple Crisp in the oven, savor the aroma, and say a quiet prayer to Brown Betty. Hang some Native American corn on the front porch. The birds will have it stripped in no time. Or better still, whip up a batch of Native American pudding. Let’s all enjoy a late season Pumpkin Spice Latte, because Peppermint and Holiday Caramel are coming at us like the bulls in Pamplona.
I'm Thinking...No! 