October 1

There are far more yellow hues in the woods and roadsides now, making the filtered sunlight appear warmer somehow. The climb up South Road from the reservoir is particularly beautiful, where the trees canopy the street just before it intersects Route 31. In summer, the deep greens of oaks and maples and ash created a darkened tunnel that was a welcome cool spot from the summer swelter. Now the same leaves have lost some of their reflected deep greens, and their slow deterioration permits light enough to pass through, giving each a measure of translucence. Driving up the road is simply warmer now, less about the temperature which has given way to cooler autumn and more of perception, where the diffuse yellow is enveloping.

All around town the delicate leaves are just starting to fall to the ground. The birch especially seem ready to retire, having spent several months tirelessly waving in even the most gentle breeze. They are often among the first to yellow and drop, in groups they give way in the autumn wind falling like giant snow flakes to the ground, continuing their carefree waving as they descend, until they come to rest as a golden carpet waiting to be scattered by the passing cars.

September 30

It is fitting that the new moon comes when September is at an end. The changes are undeniable now, much as we would prefer to keep these warm and clear New England days forever. We have been blessed with two weeks of sun-filled days, of blue skies the color of cobalt, where the most distant peaks of Wachusett are clear to see in the dry air. Equally so the night sky has been a wonder of stars, cooler now, where the crickets that remain have begun to struggle in their cadence.

It’s too easy to use the struggle analogy this time of year, when there’s sign enough that nature is increasingly content with letting go. But these signs need not be solely thought of in terms of decay or endings; there is magnificence in this transition as much as there is decline.

Take our white pines out front as an example. They, like many throughout the town are becoming beautifully two-toned now. A misconception is that pines don’t lose their needles like the deciduous trees; the vibrant sugar maples that will soon typify this fact. The truth is that most conifers do thin this time of year, particularly when the late summer and early autumn have been in drought. Just now our white pines are showing brown needles, and it is the case that such pines often drop 1/3 of their needles each year. It is partly to lessen water loss, now that photosynthesis has diminished and partly to simply account for senescence.

The result is a pleasing two-tone of greens and browns among the boughs, whereupon soon enough the ground beneath will gather another carpet layer of soft brown needles once they fall.

September 29

Mornings are equally beautiful, in the stillness of the pre-dawn when the sky is clear.

Orion is well overhead nearly, perhaps 10 degrees below meridian at 4:00 in the morning, sitting upward in the southern sky. It’s so dark now, that the Orion nebula appears within his sword, barely a fuzzy patch of white against the coal black background.

Jupiter continues to progress ever counter-clockwise, retrograde notwithstanding. It has moved closer to the twins and will reside nearby for the next year. This patch of sky is beautiful now, with Sirius and Jupiter, Orion and Aldeberan, the Hyades and the Pleides all so close together.

September 28

Autumn reminds us that the night sky, with humidity that has lowered since the sultry days of August, shows the heavens in such clarity that it is easy to fall in love with simply gazing at the stars.

The moon is waning enough now to afford more darkness, and the stars appear slowly just after 7:00 pm, with Venus first to arrive. She is brilliant as the evening star, hanging perhaps 15 degrees high on the western horizon after sunset and staying just long enough before dipping below the treelike.

If the lights of Anna Maria are off, it’s worth standing on the cross knoll when darkness sets in, particularly if the winds are calm. It Is simply beautiful to scan the horizon, watching for shooting stars and waiting to see if the milky way will resolve.

September 27

Six juvenile delinquents descended into the large boughs of the white pines that border the house on the northern side. You’d think from the fanfare that they expected we missed them. Early summer, we experienced the calls of the songbirds, melodious mating songs which began well before dawn and continued throughout the day. Later in the summer they waned, but the background noise of mourning dove and chick-a-dee, evening cardinal and catbird all persisted.

Now there is much less consistency, which made the blue jay cacophony so contrasting. From wherever they resided this summer, it appears these troublemakers have returned, like a gathering of teenagers just wanting to push the boundaries of propriety.

I suppose we’ll break out the shelled peanuts soon, tossing them on the back porch in the morning as some sort of appeasement.

September 26

Some of the burning bushes are starting to show spectacular color, with small leaves that have gone to a deep crimson. In a breeze, these leaves flutter about, giving the bush an appearance of fire, when seen from a distance (and with a little imagination).

I would plant more of them, were my conscience not overruling, as burning bush is listed as invasive. This does seem to be the case, for there are more of them in town now than I recall from years ago. A proper census is difficult most times of the year, for apart from their bladed stems, the bush is rather unremarkable seen from afar. Come late September, they begin to stick out conspicuously in fiery regalia, and it’s easy to appreciate their ornamental popularity.

They also take hold readily. A small shoot can simply be recklessly placed in any hole, in shade or sun, and it will likely thrive. Given only a few years and a little pruning, even the most singular transplant can be transformed into an ornamental bush.

There are curiosities in the coloring. On the north side of our barn, I planted two specimens roughly eight years ago. They are both thriving bushes of approximately 5 feet high, full and shapely. As far as I can tell, they are the same species, and they receive the same light, water and such. One, without exception, turns fiery red in early September, while its twin remains aloof in its deep greet coat. It always follows in early to mid October, once the first real hard frosts have set in. I can’t explain it, which is fine that way by me.

September 25

There was a mild frost this morning, visible only on the tops of the cars that had been left out overnight in the common area beside the church. The lawns and rooftops seemed unaffected, so the temperature must have been somewhere between 33 and 35 degrees.

This early frost ebbs and flows like a slow moving tide, coming in stealthfully in the early morning, in the low lands initially before progressing further each day, until it takes hold fast, and we see autumn depart.

After the sunrise, this frost will retreat, leaving wet car tops and dew-soaked grass in its wake.

September 24

The fallow hill between the farm and the college is at its most beautiful now. It is a small knoll really, unused in years past for cultivated growth, because it is likely a mass of bedrock just underneath the topsoil, and it best serves as a break between what used to be the flats below and the home above.

Seen from an easterly approach, the hill displays its fall colors in full measure now, Earthy tones that are warm and simply autumn like. The top is largely quake grass and crab, both showing purple hues hastened by the cool nights that quickly rob the summer grasses of their chlorophyll. Midway down is Timothy and Fox grass, which are yellowing and tall, swaying in the breeze in uniform waves that resemble puffs of wind that move across open water. Below them, where the neglected two-track cuts across where there is moister ground, green grasses of some sort still thrive.

From only a short distance away, it’s easy to imagine this small hill as some far off majestic peak, where the distant bands of color represent changes in the alpine zones. Up close, the grasses each have their own character, and it is pleasant to traverse the hill, seeing the color and hearing the sound of the wind rustling in the sere blades.

September 23

Down Grove, past Robinson’s Greenhouse, as the road descends and the woods thicken on the western side, the forest becomes boggy, and there is a small vernal pool set back from the road on the eastern side, partially hidden by the brush and grasses that encircle it.

In the spring, this pool is a cacophony of peepers and wood frogs, and in the summer the red-winged blackbirds often congregate among the cattails on the far side.

Now, the pond is nearly dry as is normal for such pools, particularly following the prolonged arid stretch the town’s experienced. There is just enough mucky leaf fall in the basin to characterize it properly as wetland, and I imagine that a little investigation would turn up several types of amphibians.

One such, a juvenile red-spotted salamander, was making its way across the road, heading from the area of the pool to some urgent spot in the lowland woods. What inner drive compelled it to venture forth I can only guess.

It was roughly two inches long from head to tail, a muted orange color, with slightly darker spots covering itself. Some time go, I suspect this creature was one of the many iridescent day-glow ents that we see in this area, no bigger than an inch.

I used a flat stick to lift it gingerly and moved it to the western side of the road, where it resumed its trek toward the woods.

September 22

Autumn officially begins at 4:44 pm this afternoon, according to the astronomical figures in the Farmer’s Almanac. Whether we like it or not, it is time to bid farewell to the summer, at least formally. The change from one season to another is a slow successional process, after all, and the evidence of summer’s waning has been distinct enough the past few weeks.

The trees around town are showing signs of fatigue, with limbs that seem to bend lower, laden with nut or fruit past ripeness, or burdened with leaves that are given more to yellow and blight. There is still plenty of green yet, but it is far different from the vibrant hues of lime and Kelly which signaled the youth of months ago.

Tomorrow there will be less daylight than darkness, a celestial turning point in equinox that forgives the natural world to accept the fatigue and ultimate dormancy that comes on the heels of late fall. Tomorrow there will be more leaves in the road, newly fallen with resplendent colors and whirling about in wind carried dust devils. There will be gourds of all shapes and jack-o-lanterns, and bittersweet berries that ripen in beautiful reds against their orange husks. The purple asters remain, defiantly showy against the sere tall grass, made so by the frosts that have come early.

Notes: 

Sunrise at 6:50 and at 106 degrees.

September 21

We let the lawn grow long these past several weeks to strengthen the root stock (and because the dryness of late has made the growth sporadic).

Today was likely the last mow of the year, and the newly shorn lawn became instantly more yellow, as the lengthy green grasses have been duly clipped and mulched within.

The mowing was noisier out by the oaks, which have seen fit to drop copious acorns, particularly the southern of the twins as it is evidently in mast. Acorns would get caught in the mower frame and bang within while the blade spun mulching away.

Afterward, we were treated to a spectacle in the front; the lawn, now closely cropped, revealed two distinct quarter-sized holes roughly fifty feet apart from each other. Chipmunk den holes, and we had suspected the location of one, as the chipmunk would scurry to that general location only to disappear magically within the taller grass. Now, the hole is plainly visible, and as if on queue the chipmunk made an appearance from the garden, darting in a direct line toward the hole. Our dog Tag gave chase but was seconds too late as the chipmunk dove into the ground. Tag was resolute and stuck his white snout down into the hole, smelling so forcefully that we heard the puffs of breath and saw small clouds of dust billow around his face.

I kept expecting to see the chipmunk blow forcefully out of the neighboring hole each time Tag exhaled.

September 20

The just waning full moon hung brilliantly 30 degrees up from the western horizon at 5:00 this morning. In the absolute stillness of the predawn, two Great Horned owls were having some conversation, perhaps about the beauty of the moon, which looked as if it were cut out of paper and placed on the purple iridescent sky.

At 53 degrees, it was perfectly comfortable to walk up the road, using the moonlight to see clearly, where the familiar trees, light poles and mailboxes cast moon shadows. The light was easily strong enough to read by, and in the quiet of the morning (apart from the garrulous owls) I was tempted to sit on the ground at the end of the farm driveway and read the paper that Glen had deposited sometime earlier.

Moon shadow is a pleasing way to experience the sun’s light, but I’m told it is possible to witness Venus’ shadowing. I suspect that it must be closer to the new moon when the skies are especially dark, the humidity must be low, and Venus must be relatively close (and high in the sky). Even then, it must take sharp eyes to discern the shadow of objects from the light reflected off Venus, but how wonderful.

September 19

We dodged a frost, but it was close. When I checked the thermometer at 4 this morning it registered 37, and by first light in certain places in town, roof tops had patches of hoar frost, and a few of the lower areas, like the large field midway down Grove (the field that abuts the Leicester water stream) had bits of frosty haze back lit in the tall grass and nested cups of Queen Anne’s Lace.

I’m certain the farm has been monitoring the temps. One precarious dip too low would damage much of the provender, especially the peppers, eggplant and tomatoes. This is always the risky dance they play each fall, wondering if the late transplants of May will dodge the frosts of September.

Today is after all the Harvest Moon, and now that the frost is more than just a “someday,” the farm can hear the ticking of the clock more earnestly. What began in what seems so long ago as promise, and saw itself as growth and then patience, is now resplendent as bounty, but only if time allows. Spring was much of hurry toward maturity, and it seems that now it has become hurry to gather.

September 18

The cool nights these past few days have hastened the change of the crab and witch grasses in the yard, giving our front a more motley appearance. Soon enough, the summer weed grasses will die off, leaving patches of golden sere among the still green bluegrass and fescue that predominates.

I am admittedly hypocritical about this. I am pleased when the warm nights of July arrive, and the crab seed explodes toward new seedling growth. The crab is thick and limey green all July and August, giving our mostly unkempt yard a more respectable density. But it is a case of temporary embroidery, and like our summer songbirds which add color and beauty, the fall onset prompts their departure. Such is the lawn, where soon it will be thin again.

Compounding matters this year are the Japanese Beetle larvae, which have evidently taken residence and are doing their best to consume the tender roots of fescue and Kentucky. They’ve been slowly growing since mid summer, of course, but the damage is only visible now. It must have been the hot July, for I see such damage in several lawns around town.

September 17

It was cold this morning at 36 degrees an hour before dawn, with no humidity or wind to speak of. It looked and felt and even smelled like autumn approaching.

There was a slight wood smoke fragrance in the air, and I suspected the Cheney farm had started an early fire in the stove to take the edge off the chill in the house. Out in the street, where the vapor lamp shines down an amber-colored light, the smoke had collected in the low spot, settling in like fog seen sometimes in cooler valleys.

Approaching from up Grove, where the road rises slightly at the junction of Sunset Lane, Glen’s twin headlights were visible just above the layer of ground smoke, and as his car reached the descent past the town fields toward the low spot, the sharp beams vanished and became a brilliant diffusion of light, each particle of smoke laden air reflecting in all directions, until his car glided beyond.

September 16

It’s one thing to get caught underneath the black oaks unaware as the acorns drop, though they do sting a little. It’s quite another to be near a hickory tree when they let go.

There are a couple of shagbarks in the lower woods near the vernal pool beside Asnebumskit Pond. They are fairly majestic looking, with steel-gray bark on big trunks that rise 70 or so feet into the air; the bark has the characteristic look of peeling, much in the same manner that shake roofs tend to gray and curl as they age.

Around the base of each are strewn the open husks of the hickory nuts, evidently having either been opened from above by the squirrels (who then cast the outer casings aside) or been dropped to the ground and managed from below. It’s a dangerous business standing beneath these trees just now. The squirrels are up high foraging, and sure enough nuts of both types, opened and whole, come crashing down.

Whole hickory nuts are golf ball sized if not larger, and they would give a memorable knock on the noggin if the unfortunate were to occur. Their odor is pleasing, though decidedly piney and acidic, much in the way that black walnuts have a distinctive smell.

Our Michigan farm was called Hickory Ridge, for it was situated on the top of a plateau, the edge of which had nearly a half dozen old and large shagbark hickory trees, likely planted intentionally as a ridge line in the early 1930s.

These hickories were only a dozen yards from the house, and we enjoyed all manner of forest birds and beasts who made use of them. Particularly wonderful were the families of flying squirrels who made their nests in the boughs; we’d see them at nighttime, scurrying among the branches and occasionally taking flight from one tree to another.

September 15

With the onset of cooler weather, I suspect there is some ethos that forgives or even excuses a separation from the natural world. It is too easy to claim the convenience of indoor pursuits, and the ever-present intrusions of technology in favor of the empiricism afforded by the outside.

Observe the masses in town, coming out of the bank, or standing at the soccer field, walking along the sidewalk, or waiting for a child to arrive on the bus. Electronic device in hand they detach to a virtual place, seemingly oblivious to the physical world of which they are a passive part.

It is too easy to lament the poor state of humankind’s ambivalence to their natural surroundings. Put simply it is so very disheartening to witness such disconnect.

Paxton is no different than the next New England town in this way, or likely the majority of towns in these states. There is beauty so profound here and now, in the cycle of the seasons, and yet people have distanced themselves from being a part of it.

Notes:

Buckeye trees dropping nuts.

September 14

The town neglected to mow the roadsides a second time this late summer, and we have been treated to a display of wildflowers and weeds in more abundance along Grove.

Noteworthy have been the pileworts or fireweeds, which have risen high above the ground foliage and have for the past two weeks been displaying white seed heads. They resemble the dandelion heads in the manner in which they seem to “poof” upright, but they are decidedly more cotton looking, thicker and strikingly white.

Smartweed and jewelweed have also thrived, particularly in the roadside areas that are more shaded by the abutting forest. Jewelweed was so numerous only a week ago that it was almost disorienting in places to see such splashes of orange amid the delicate green.

Now, the asters are dominant, though their whites and purples are set within the varied tall grasses which have slowly been changing colors, giving any particular stretch a patchwork appearance of shades of green, yellows and even slight purple leaf blades, where seed-laden heads of all configurations rise upward.

The roadsides are simply beautiful now.

September 13

Our twin black oaks in the front are dropping acorns more frequently, making little noises in the grass and on the driveway when they hit. And by no coincidence the gray squirrels are spending more time in this vicinity, picking up the newly fallen manna from heaven and taking it to the horde.

These two oaks are curious, for by all appearances they are of the same age and located only twenty yards apart. Both are rather majestic as oaks go, rising nearly 80 feet into the air, with large spreading crowns whose leaves provide welcome shade in the summer months when the midday sun strikes the house and yard. If I had to guess, I’d estimate their age at 60 or 70 years, planted at the same time back when this section of Grove was a two-track dirt road that connected the Van Wyck Farm at the intersection of Grove and Route 31. I’m told that our property was formerly a potato field earlier in the 1900s, so its possible these two oaks were planted as some sort of road front.

They are curious, because their behaviors differ so with respect to acorn production. The southernmost tree is presently in a mast year, dropping far in excess of its sibling and much more than I recall seeing last year. The northern twin is more frugal this year having been in mast the autumn last. The northern’s acorns, regardless of year, are consistently larger, with fuller caps and slightly greener casings.

September 12

Two days of sweltering heat, well above normal for this time of year, and we are thankful that tomorrow’s cold front will return things to the expected autumnal feel. No one likes to be reminded of the summer that just was, when we have mentally closed the books, so to speak. To return to the heat and humidity of late July is simply improper. It feels out of place, these conditions, when the angle of the noon-day sun is notably lower in the sky, the leaves on most deciduous trees look tired and increasingly yellow, and the asters line all the roadsides and fence rows.

The only benefit is that the heat has hastened the ripening of the tomatoes on the porch, which had seemed destined to arrest at green with the autumnal chill the past ten days. With luck, we’ll enjoy a few more slices of beefsteak reds on our bread and cheese, the bruschetta of late summer that makes the heat worth it, almost.

September 11

In the uncultivated areas between the planted rows, and along the two-track road that provides access to the fields, Virginia Pepperweed is showing its seed heads in readiness. They are really quite an attractive thing as weed species go, with tiny seed flags in radial arrangement that rise up several inches from the basal plant which may yet be green. Most have dozens of seeds in each raised head, and their brown display resembles the shepherd’s purse of two months ago, though the spiral pattern is distinct.

The name is apt, for the seeds are edible and do have a tinge of pepper taste. It’s easy enough to grasp the raised stalk in one hand lightly, pull upward with enough force to dislodge the seeds yet not so much that the stalk separates. I’ll collect fifty or so small seeds easily this way in one motion.

I’ve read that these were used in olden times as a poor substitute for actual pepper and that the seeds are a good source of vitamins A and C.

Notes:

41 cricket calls per minute at 4:00 am.

September 10

Kipper sits on his side in the sun-warmed driveway, enjoying the midday heat that with each passing day seems to be waning. His tongue lolls out to one side, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, though he seems perfectly blissful even on the verge of overheating.

Though autumn is my favorite season, there is a part that is bitter sweet. Perhaps it is because this time is really a signal of the beginning of the ending of this yearly cycle of growth to decline. We tend to notice these progressions more readily now, in the yellowed leaves that start to fall from the trees, hastened by crisp wind, in the call of the Canada Geese that fly high overhead, and in the field of ready pumpkins to be harvested next to the picked rows of sweet corn whose leaves are starting to decay.

These things we experience are indeed simply a part of the cycle of the seasons that have been and will be, with or without us. I have seen 46 such autumns, each unique in its own way and upon my own spirit, all governed by the same successional forces that allow one season to be eclipsed by another.

I think of these things as I watch Kipper in sheer ecstasy on the sun-dappled pavement. I wonder if he is already longing in some way for the spring or summer that already has been, or if he thinks about the waning of this season. Chronologically, we are both in the autumn of our lives, and I wonder if he, like me, has any measure of deep value of these passing seasons which are filled with anticipation and contentment and longing in varied measure.

September 9

The phlox seeds are reaching maturity, clusters of brown spherical pods that sit on top of the plants as remnants of where not too long ago their blossoms of pinks and whites lay resplendent for the hummingbirds.

Now in the warmth of the September sun, on particularly still days we have begun to hear them popping open, one or two every few minutes. The seed is flung wide, leaving the sere brown husk to fall lightly down to the ground.

Notes:

Pumpkins on display at the farm.

September 8

Early cider has arrived at the farm, placed in half and full gallon jugs on the shelf where the apples, peaches, blueberries and grapes are sold. This early batch will be tempered in sweetness and slightly acidic, compared to what will be stocked later in the month as the apples continue to ripen. I like it either way, and so I brought home a half gallon, poured a mug full and heated it in the microwave. It was a delicious taste of fall.

I remember making cider years ago in Michigan, when as a child we’d spend an occasional fall weekend up north. Activity at the MacArthur farm had slackened since the frenetic pace of getting hay mowed, baled and stacked in the mow, and we kids could enjoy other work like cider making.

We’d take the truck to the upper field that overlooks Lancaster Lake, where several apple trees sat in uncultivated surroundings, though separated from the wanting eyes of the cattle by fencing. The cows would surely enjoy rubbing up against the apple trees to dislodge the fruit to the ground so they could gorge away.

We’d fill bushel baskets with apples, handpicked by standing in the flatbed of the truck and reaching high. In my minds eye, I can still see the cows looking expectantly across the fence at us, hoping that we’d allow them access.

We’d ferry the apples back to the farm, where Bruce or James would have the press ready, a medieval-looking contraption of slated wood and large turning screw. The apples were placed in a cheese cloth, then situated within the press. The screw would mash the cheese bag, and the juice would flow out the wooden sluice at the bottom into waiting glass jars, each filled in turn by a funnel held between the sluice and its neck.

September 7

In the heat of the day, the wild concord grapes seem to release their distinctive smell, and in certain places of town, the air is infused with a delicate smell of grape. It always reminds me of Welch’s Grape jelly, which isn’t too surprising, of course, but yet an important personal link to my own childhood somehow.

Odors in general are powerful things, stimulating not just our olfactory senses but also our memories in which they were a part. Spring has its verdancy, of Earthiness and water and new growth. Summer’s fragrances are more sultry, the stickiness of pollens, the smell of cut grass and of barbeques, honeysuckle and of thunderstorms. Autumn’s smells are all their own, of ripeness and of decline, the grape vines, apple cider steaming in a mug, the tannins of fallen leaves after a shower, the first hints of wood fires as the nights grow chilly.