Indian Summer has passed.
It died overnight, just as it had arrived. Our nights are in the mid-30s to high-40s now, and daytime temps might go as high as 70F. This is my favorite time of year, in part because of the cooler weather. I feel more energized in fall, more optimistic...which seems at odds with the natural rhythm of the season.
This is a time for fallow fields and naked trees, when very little grows anymore except the length of the nights, and of the shadows across the landscape at an earlier hour each day. Lots of people feel a great sadness at this time of year -- my youngest sister, for one. Sandra associates autumn with loss, and fights mild depression for several weeks.
I look forward to autumn, my level of excitement and anticipation rising as the temperatures drop and the leaves change color. I can smell Fall coming, just as I can smell rain coming in Spring and Summer. Even the Earth smells different in fall, especially around here with so many fruit orchards in the area. It is harvest time, of course, and that has something to do with the scents on the breezes. Cornstalks and the last crop of hay being cut; apples, pears and vineyards redolent of sweet juices; the earthiness of potatoes and cabbages, carrots and beets...and the smell of all those leaves.
It started raining leaves a couple of days ago, when the daytime temps began to drop and we were hit with brief, intermittent showers -- spritzes. I was washing dishes when I heard what I thought was heavier rainfall, but couldn't see rain out the kitchen window...a puzzlement I had to solve. I opened the backdoor and saw a torrent of falling leaves -- maroon dogwood leaves, bright lemon-yellow witch hazel, purple and red and zebra-striped orange-and-green leaves of the native persimmons...and the paintbox riot of color from the huge old sassafras at the side of the house. On top of the sight and scent of the leaves is the wonderful rustling, whispering sound they make as they hit each other and the trees on their way down.
Thank you, dear God, for this great feast for my senses each autumn. I am awe-filled, blessed and deeply grateful.
It died overnight, just as it had arrived. Our nights are in the mid-30s to high-40s now, and daytime temps might go as high as 70F. This is my favorite time of year, in part because of the cooler weather. I feel more energized in fall, more optimistic...which seems at odds with the natural rhythm of the season.
This is a time for fallow fields and naked trees, when very little grows anymore except the length of the nights, and of the shadows across the landscape at an earlier hour each day. Lots of people feel a great sadness at this time of year -- my youngest sister, for one. Sandra associates autumn with loss, and fights mild depression for several weeks.
I look forward to autumn, my level of excitement and anticipation rising as the temperatures drop and the leaves change color. I can smell Fall coming, just as I can smell rain coming in Spring and Summer. Even the Earth smells different in fall, especially around here with so many fruit orchards in the area. It is harvest time, of course, and that has something to do with the scents on the breezes. Cornstalks and the last crop of hay being cut; apples, pears and vineyards redolent of sweet juices; the earthiness of potatoes and cabbages, carrots and beets...and the smell of all those leaves.
It started raining leaves a couple of days ago, when the daytime temps began to drop and we were hit with brief, intermittent showers -- spritzes. I was washing dishes when I heard what I thought was heavier rainfall, but couldn't see rain out the kitchen window...a puzzlement I had to solve. I opened the backdoor and saw a torrent of falling leaves -- maroon dogwood leaves, bright lemon-yellow witch hazel, purple and red and zebra-striped orange-and-green leaves of the native persimmons...and the paintbox riot of color from the huge old sassafras at the side of the house. On top of the sight and scent of the leaves is the wonderful rustling, whispering sound they make as they hit each other and the trees on their way down.
Thank you, dear God, for this great feast for my senses each autumn. I am awe-filled, blessed and deeply grateful.
(Photo of native persimmon leaves by M. C. McLemore, October 2008)
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