December 8

Ahead of the storm, a light snow fell overnight laying just a dusting of white on the ground and in the evergreen boughs.

Across the road, the sere brown of September’s pepper plants contrast well against he field of white. Within hang shriveled fruits that were passed over when the harvest took place, remaining on the plant until the deep snows cover them until spring.

The color throughout is quite pretty, varied shades of red, yellow and orange, hundreds of them within the rows making a patchwork of white and brown with splashes of color that look like ornaments on miniature bare trees. Each pepper is but a diminished version of its autumn form, resembling a lantern mantle, dangling and infused with its own color, defiantly resisting the encroachment of white which will all too soon dominate the landscape.

December 7

During the last December ice storm, the majority of town went without power for a week, and the roads were nearly impassable for several days because of downed trees and limbs by the hundreds. The morning after, the building gray light revealed Grove Street as an almost unrecognizable stretch, everything covered in ice shards that glistened, save for the debris that continued to fall from the trees.

We were without power for eight days, living in our fireplace room to be near the wood stove, using candle light in the evenings to move about or to simply pass the time, and we daily gathered water from the Artesian spring in the woods near the college. All the while the town worked throughout to clear the roads of debris, using the field parking lot as a staging area for placing the piles of limbs and full trees, stacked well high of fifteen feet and the length of a football field.

December 6

The weatherman forecasts icing in a couple of days as a warm front with rain from the south gives way to a fast moving arctic clipper, come down from the Great Lakes.

We’re nearly at the anniversary of the big ice storm that happened a few years ago here in town; the evidence of its damage is still visible. This is particularly the case this time of year, when the absence of foliage makes the tree branches stand out well into the woods.

Throughout town, there are still “hangers” and “widow makers” from that past storm, branches that succumbed to the weight of the ice and snapped, yet remained fixed and dangling from the point of breakage. Of course, many fell to the ground long ago, and the majority snapped and fell during the storm itself, breaking power lines, damaging roofs and blocking the road. We recall how throughout the night of the big storm, large limbs were breaking several a minute, sounding like gunfire around the house and through the woods. The morning light revealed a landscape of icy beauty and sheer destruction.

The thought of another storm of ice coming, even if a minor thing, sets our nerves on edge.

December 5

Venus is as bright as she will be now, resting high up in the eastern horizon after sundown. These past few evenings have been clear and dry, making her stand out all the more.

It is an irony that she is so bright, made so that we see the smallest fraction of her surface; her position to Earth is close in our orbits, and because of this we see her now as a crescent, reflecting much in the same manner as the moon when it lies thusly juxtaposed. Her closeness to us intensifies her light, and seen through a modest telescope, she does indeed take the crescent shape.

Her time as the evening star will fade, as she swings through her orbit between us and the sun. She is sinking slowly on the horizon each night and won’t reappear until five months hence as our morning star, preceding the sunrise.

December 4

The rhododendron throughout town are more conspicuous, in part because their deep green and broad leaves stand distinct against the background of stems and branches, the neighboring trees and bushes whose leaves have fallen away. It is almost as if the rhododendron is indifferent to the change of seasons, carrying on much as it has done since we first took notice of it last spring, when the purple, pink and white blossoms were nearly overwhelming.

The buds that will become next spring’s flowers sit idly now, fattened just slightly and a pale tan, waiting until warming conditions spur them to mature.

All is not quiet however, and here is where the rhododendron is curious. In the warming day, when temperatures run above approximately 35 degrees, the leaves are full and positioned nearly perpendicular to the stem. At freezing they begin to noticeably droop, and when the thermometer falls below 25 degrees the leaves curl closed. Colder yet and the curl tightens, concentrating the green color into drooping cylinders that appear lifeless.

Early mornings this time of year find them tightly formed, yet as the day progresses and the feeble sun helps modestly to push the air above freezing, the plant responds – opening leaves slowly and causing them to extend.

Why they do this isn’t really as important as is the wonder that they do, these living thermometers.

December 3

The fox may be on the move again, for I’ve seen them twice now in the same location crossing the road in what must be a corridor. Three mornings ago and again today, in the hours before dawn, a pair emerged from the driveway located next to the wetland area on Route 122 just west of where Grove Street intersects. First came one fox, trotting slowly across the road from the driveway, stopping within the border of trees on the other side that marks the entrance to Crowningshield.

It paused there within for a couple of seconds, then gave a sharp barking call, shrill and intent. A moment later its companion emerged from the same driveway, following the same track across the road and into the woods, presumably both headed for a den somewhere in the small forest that stands between the outlying homes in the development and the first reservoir of the Kettlebrook ponds below.

December 2

Clear and still this morning, so much so that it was easy to hear the bells of the First Congregational Church from the back porch. Six times they chimed, pausing a couple of seconds in between each - strangely the only sound at all outside now.

Six in the morning is very dark in December, made more so by the new moon which officially arrives tomorrow. It seems like just yesterday that mornings were filled with the vibrancy of birdsong or insect; these have been replaced by a December stillness that is so quiet that it’s almost lonely.

December 1

The two-track across the road is now frozen, making the going at once easier and more difficult. The sandy soil of each lane is fixed in place so that our boots stay clean where just last week a walk here resulted in clinging mud. The dogs certainly seem to prefer it like this; their paws stay clean after a walk around the fields.

The path is also less forgiving – the differences in freezing have created small ridges and bumps that stay in place where before they would yield to passing boot. Where larger rocks rest in the track, the soil around them has expanded in the freeze, making it look as if the stones have sunk slightly into the Earth.

Where the tractor cut across the path, as it left the corner of the field turned under a week ago, its tread remains fixed in the track. This will continue, fossil like, through snow that piles high with coming storms and winter winds that drift the pack until the ground here is bare. This will endure until the spring thaw, when the warming rains and turning soil work the land toward another planting season.

November 30

November at an end, and the town trucks were out last night for the first time this season. We heard them lumbering slowly down the road, spreading salt in anticipation of a small storm that was to bring an inch or so of wet snow.

The forecast didn’t pan out save for a transitional rain which was more nuisance than anything; we’re still in a fair drought from the deficit of this past several months. (The upper reservoir along Route 56 is evidence of this, as the water has depleted so that it is nearly possible to walk across.)

The salted roads were a bluish slurry at daybreak, with small streams of runoff moving down the roadside, taking it all downhill and collecting where we can only imagine with reluctance.

By the afternoon, the sun shone through for a few hours, enough to hasten the evaporation of moisture from the pavement. What remained were the remnant salts not carried to the roadside, leaving the surface chalky white and making it look as if a light dusting of snow happened after all.

November 29

My friend Bill is gathering greenery in the backwoods near his home, in preparation for the holidays that will all too soon be upon us. This is a pleasant tradition – to secure boughs of cedar and arbor vitae, binding them in series, either in a circle as a wreath or as one length to use as garland atop the mantle.

We have a couple of weeks yet before we too trek to the lower woods to search for a suitable Christmas tree. This initial foray will be to locate a few good candidates, and we will then return in another week with a hand saw and truss to pull it out.

Of course we could simply purchase a tree like most tend to do. Even now there are some to be bought in front of the hardware store in Holden, and in another week we will increasingly see evergreens tied down to the rooftops of cars, being transported to homes all about. These are the farm-raised trees, grown just so and shaped for aesthetics, in my mind almost as artificial as the synthetic trees for sale.

Our tree will fall short of these store bought specimens. It will lack by comparison in shape and size, yet I would have it no other way. We locate and cut and haul our own to celebrate the tradition of bringing the living greenery within our home, which is ultimately the connection that we wish in these holy days to come.

November 28

We are thankful for the little things on this day, apart from the feelings of security in family, friends, and home. Perhaps above all, we recognize that in the waning of this year, as the darkness settles in for the long haul ahead, we begin to tally the experiences large and small that this year has provided.

These are the things that sustain us through the winter that will be, with the hope and anticipation that we will experience them again as one season of rest gives way to the cycle of renewal.

My own tally of this Paxton year includes:

• The sight of the first yellow crocus, revealed as the snowpack recedes from the garden’s edge
• The laughing cry of the pileated, startled by my presence in its woodland home
• The mist that hangs above the wetland on Route 122 near Brooks Road, catching the rising sun and making ghostly shapes
• The lonely cry of the blue heron as it flies alone overhead in the waning light of a still summer evening.
• The smell of the diesel tractor that crests the ridge in the field across the road, dragging a plow that turns the fields to chocolate brown
• The predawn view of Orion in early autumn, seen overhead from Grove Street, framed by the late season trees on either side of the road
• The summer smell of Davis Hill Road after a rain shower, filled with the perfume of sweet grass and milkweed blossom.

November 27

There has been no sign of the chipmunks for three days, ever since the arctic front seemed to herald an early winter. Likely they have retreated to their dens to ride out the next season, spending the months in torpor and surviving off the provender in their granaries. There are moments we envy this ability.

These dens must be extensive, and I’m to understand that there are multiple entries about. Evidently there are distinct chambers for sleeping and feeding, eating and rearing, and so I imagine subterranean complexes all about the yard and wood.

It seems only yesterday that the chipmunks would taunt us in the back, perched on the old stone wall that marks the beginning of the access road from the berm. They would “cheep, cheep” loudly, calling to one another, then scurrying in chase, tempting the dogs to pursue them into the hole in the wall.

November 26

This clipper wind is cutting, and the wind chill is such that even the wood stove can’t keep the fireplace room all that warm. The only consolation is the brilliant sky, though it is deceiving with these temps in the low teens.

The trail to the vernal pool near Asnebumskit is leaf covered, and though it passes protectively in a natural hollow so that the winds do not reach, there is the sound of it all in the upper canopy. It is a roaring force that moves the tops of the big trees and makes the distinctive creaking sound when the trees rub together.

The squirrel nests have been more easily visible since the leaves have come down, and now they are conspicuous overhead moving about in the winds. I imagine them tucked neatly inside the darkened nest, comfortably insulated against the cold and wind by layered leaves and bedding, yet it must be a tumultuous affair today.

November 25

There are eleven chick-a-dees near the tube feeders this morning, either perched in front of an opening to extract seed or waiting patiently on the crook of the pole for a space to open. The ground beneath is too crowded with the return of the juncos in full measure, where a dozen or so mill about quickly.

An arctic blast of air has increased the activity, where the birds are simply desperate to forage as quickly as possible the moment the gloaming light of morning arrives. I read a study that suggests chick-a-dees will spend nearly the entire waking day on these frigid periods collecting seed, having to consume enough high-energy fare simply to allow them stores to last through the dark stretch of the night. It is the most raw cut of survival we witness where the frenetic pace at the tube provides our own watching pleasure.

When I step outside they rapidly depart to the pines in the berm or in the access border, only to return shortly, alighting on the reaching branches of the maple to measure my intent. It’s impossible not to love these gregarious little birds, who give their quizzical squawk and pip with a slightly tilted head and beady black eye. They regard us all with an air of familiarity or recognition before flying down to the feeder again.

November 24

While the yard is still free of snow, we really should finish the job of raking the last of the leaf fall that now rests sparsely about. The culprits are the black oaks, who hold tenaciously to their sere leaves well after the cast offs of their brilliant neighbors have been tidied to the side of the yard.

It is easy to justify overlooking this chore, now that our enthusiasm for autumn raking has come and gone. We may as well put the rakes in the barn, though to do so necessitates seeing the snow shovels that rest inside the door, and it’s difficult to swap one big job in anticipation of another.

The yard around the barn, from the garden down by the lower woods to the back porch is a strange patchwork. Now that the summer crab has died back to yellow and brown, there are sadly few greens to be found, save for the curious islands of thyme which have aggressively established. Sarah grew thyme in a spot near the foundation years ago, and since it has sought fit to spread outward into the yard. In the summer, when I would mow, either my foot on trampling or the blade upon cutting would release the distinct herbal odor, making the area smell vaguely of cooking.

November 23

A gentle front came overnight, bringing a warming rain that ended sometime before daybreak.

In the darkness of the predawn, it was strangely Earthy smelling  where the wispy breeze from across the road carried the scent of the turned fields and wet asphalt. For a moment, it was easy to imagine that spring was arriving, with its signs of renewal close at hand.

This is fleeting, we know, and the forecast is for an arctic blast to race in on the heels of this respite, re-freezing the ground more deeply perhaps, to the point that no ephemeral thaw can overturn.

November 22

The pond at Moore State Park is skimmed over with ice, likely having formed a couple of days ago during the cold night in the teens. Even with day temps running in the 40s, it isn’t enough to turn back the tide of the coming freeze.

Water still flows freely underneath the bridge that crosses the spillway here. At the edge, there rests the shelf of the now thickening ice, where the flow beneath carries small bubbles and cast off detritus from the growing season. They emerge only for a moment before falling off the precipice and to the holding pond below, waiting in queue to enter the cataract of the mill cascade.

November 21

The Guinea Fowl at the Cheney Farm have nearly reached maturity, and the five birds we see in the morning gather near the roadside fence in the daylight, calling uniquely in alarm when anything out of sorts passes nearby.

Bruce nurtured a half dozen eggs in the incubator last spring and transferred the chicks to a brooding yard after their arrival. Throughout the summer they remained mostly protected and given increasingly free reign to the front barnyard, which itself has always been a jumble of cast-off machinery and assorted implements. We’ve grown accustomed to all manner of chickens, roosters and turkeys throughout the years, the latter always mysteriously disappearing right around this time of the season. This is just as well, for the birds tend to wander recklessly into Grove, and we have in the past come upon a scene of feathers in the street where some poor bird met its end being struck by a car.

Bruce indicates that this summer has seen more red tail hawks overhead, and a few of the chickens and even a Guinea have become prey. The remainder scatter quickly when a shadow passes overhead, evidently a learned behavior or instinctual response. Now that the ravens have returned for the autumn, the smaller birds are still at risk as are the eggs that have been set within the brooder.

November 20

Coyotes on the move means that all manner of vulnerable creatures are in danger. When we moved to our old house, the neighbors warned us not to let our cats outside for fear of coyotes, fox and even fishers. Since, we’ve seen them all and have been aware of certain neighbor pets that have gone missing.

Autumn seems to have a way of reminding us of our proximity to the wild and its austerity. At the same time that the environment is becoming harsher, certain animals are more frequent in preparation. Thus we see the bears at the feeder, raiding the supply to put on stores. The coyote and fox are on the move, the former rarely seen though often heard. Fox we do witness, furtively crossing the road in the morning light or brief twilight of evening. It hunts the fields I suspect and travels to and from its woodsy den.

November 19

The clipping barks began sometime after midnight, from the direction of the lower woods. Having been awakened abruptly by the noise, I decided to go out to the back porch to simply listen.

The nearly full moon was still high so that the back yard and border trees were cast in a silver light, and despite the cold temperature, the lack of wind made it comfortable enough to stand outside.

Another bark-like call, cropped and staccato, followed by several yips, all seemingly just beyond the edge of the treeline at the base of the yard where it abuts the woods. Then I heard a movement – a rustling of leaves down below as if several of the coyotes were gathering.

We go for months without hearing their cries, particularly in the rearing months of summer, when I imagine that any new pups are holed away in forest dens. Come autumn and winter we are reminded of their presence here, like this night, when the eerie bark and longing cries travel clearly in the cold silent forest.

November 18

Hard rain brought down more cones; spruces just across the road now litter the street, some getting caught in the small stream which forms in the shoulder with the heavy rain. They make their way down Grove, some slowing in the small eddies or sandbars of silt. Most only travel a dozen feet or so before coming to rest where the shoulder berms against the roadside.

Across from Sunset Lane there is a large white pine on the old Prentiss property. It too has shaken loose its reluctant cones, brown and closed tightly on the ground. These cones were green last spring, spotted with pitch that smelled of familiar deep woods, waiting to be touched by the clouds of pollen released in May.

Now the cones are dry, and we collect handfuls of them to place by the woodstove. They will open slowly in the dry heat, spilling forth small seeds, and we will use the remnant cones as crackling additions to the going fire.

November 17

An unusually warm day, with afternoon sunlight low in the sky, casting everything in a more golden sheen. It is remarkable how much the intensity has changed from only just a month ago, though pleasing all the same as the landscape takes on a soft, sepia-like feel.

The tractor across the road was out, using tines to loosen the soil from underneath an unpicked row of carrots. Strange to hear it now, when the fields have been nearly buttoned up for the approach of winter.

	Sarah and I walked through the spruce line and up the row to join Larry, who was busy picking carrots and placing them discriminately into worn bushel baskets. The best were intended for the food bank, while the remaining were left rudely behind on the row surface, food for the deer or to decompose as next spring arrives.

Working the row was a pleasant affair, warm enough and with no wind that made the job less a chore and more a chance to simply enjoy working in the soil. This will end soon enough.

November 16

Between the lower field of the farm and the cultivated grounds of Anna Maria, the acre of fallow land has changed notably these past several years. Time was when one of the men would use the tractor and mowing deck to cut back the yearly scrub, leaving this land a shorn breakline between field and college.

It has always been a wet parcel, where the water table rises on bedrock that is close to the soil, such that the spring season finds water percolating here on the surface, flowing down the natural valley. The moist soil promotes all sorts of early successional plants to thrive, and hence necessitates the aggressive mowing.

This has been neglected these past several years, and the field is now replete with sumac trees and tall grasses, the former so dense that it is nearly impossible to walk through.

They are beautiful now, to see them from the two-track that connects the upper to the lower field, hundreds of sumacs, all leafless and skeletal, reaching upward in disarray. Most bear the red candle, faded somewhat from the cardinal flame of a month ago.

Spread within are sere milkweed plants, dozens of them with dried pods that lay open with silken seeds that have spilled forth. When the breeze strikes, several scatter about, lifting among the sumacs and floating upward and beyond to the lower woods.

It is simply beautiful here.

November 15

The twilight before dawn and again following sunset are both more noticeably shorter than they tranquil pace of summer’s gloaming. Now the light comes quickly in the morning, just after the area of sky in the east which marks the approach of the coming day. But this is followed in earnest by the daylight as if the countryside awakens quickly in November to prosper from as much of these miserly days as possible. We are reminded that the sun is up for only 8 ½ hours or so at this point.

November 14

The big oaks in front catch the morning sunlight on their southern face, warming the bark on this cold morning for an hour or so until the angle shifts enough so that they are cast in shadow.

Up close, their bark is deeply furrowed and patchy with bits of deep green moss that looks like miniature forests seen from above.

Standing nearby with the sun on my back, the absence of wind made it seem warmer than the air temperature, and it was easy to imagine the moss as verdant forests upon some gray landscape seen from high above.

Next to one large group of moss, a lightning beetle sat immobile, its body wedged within a deeper furrow so that the moss canopy partially shielded its carapace. I leaned in and breathed warm air on it, encouraging its antennae to respond in flicking about slowly to the energy-giving warmth.

Several breaths and the beetle began to move slowly away, and whether it was due to the warmth or something other in my breath I don’t know.

November 13

Viburnams about the town are now rapidly changing. They are among the last of the deciduous plants to lose their leaves, it seems, and the recent cold has only hastened the change.

They are remarkable really, beautiful and varied from spring till now. The early leaves in May came easily enough, lime green and small versions of the mature form which resulted. This was curious to watch, as the leaves seemed to arrest at a medium size in June, only to grow slowly beyond into the early autumn. I recall seeing ours out front and thinking it to be thin looking in early summer. Now, its leaf cover is full, not so much by the addition of new ones as much as the continued growth of those that formed so early. They are dropping now, making the bush appear thin again.

These leaves are mottled, no two alike and range from purple to brown, yellow to red. The effect is a rich mosaic, so autumn like in appearance. As they fall, the ground beneath takes on a blanket which contrasts well with the remaining then snow cover of yesterday.