"Fall of the Year"

The world's on fire in the cold clear air
The world shouts Autumn everywhere
All the little animals began to grow more fur
All the summer birds began to fly away,
The little grey kitten came out of the wind to purr
And the leaves blew away. All in one day.

Darkness came before the night
The air grew cold enough to bite
Chrysanthemums were shaggy yellow
The leaves turned red
The leaves turned brown
The tumbled all over the frosty ground
The worlds on fire in the cold clear air
The world shouts AUTUMN everywhere.

--Margaret Wise Brown
From A Celebration of the Seasons
 

"Forest Flame"

When Jack wakes in the morning,
     In these sweet autumn days,
He sees the sumac burning
     And the maples in a blaze,
And he rubs his eyes, bewildered,
     All in the golden haze.
Then: "No. They still are standing;
     They're not on fire at all"—
He softly says, when slowly
     He sees some crimson fall,
And yellow flakes comme floating
     Down from the oaks so tall.
And then he knows the spirit
     Of the sunset must have planned
The myriad bright surprises
     That deck the dying land,—
And he wonders if the sumac
     And the maples understand.

"St. Nicholas", November 1880

"October's Party"

by George Cooper

October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came—
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New fallen from the sky.

Then, in the rustic hollow,
At hide-and-seek they played,
The party closed at sundown,
And everybody stayed.
Professor Wind played louder;
They flew along the ground;
And then the party ended
In jolly "hands around."

"Autumnal Tints"

Walden Pond in autumn by Toby McGuire

This was Henry David Thoreau's final essay, edited during his last few days of suffering from tuberculosis. Published in "The Atlantic," October 1862.

Seeking Autumn...

Alas, summer's claws are still painfully entrenched...but there is hope, even after a dreadful few weeks when the weather decided it had not yet given us enough of stifling, appallingly heavy air pulled like thick lint into the lungs and sizzling rays that touched skin with tongues of fire, and laid upon us temperatures in the 90s to torture us further. Now storms are drifting in from the south, flattening temperatures into the tedious 80s and adding humidity to the mix.

Sadly, the only two singular things about this summer have been that I discovered a traditional "Scotch thistle" plant, with its unique purple head, blooming at the side of the main road, and that I have seen more butterflies this year than I have seen in this neighborhood in ages: big yellow butterflies that skirt the tops of cars as they dash by, saffron daredevils with gossamer wings; medium-sized brown butterflies with their upper wings tipped in white as if they have been skimming cream from the tops of unpasteurized milk bottles; and small black butterflies who dart in and out of backyards and around heads, and zoom by the nose of an uncurious terrier. Indeed, Tucker is not into botany or entomology, as evidenced when I noted a virtual exodus of caterpillars from flanking rows of overgrown cedar bushes alongside a neighbor's driveway, determined black creatures with fetching red "racing stripes" setting off down the sidewalk as if on a mission, and he studiously ignored them to pee on a weed.

Still, a few weeks ago, while once again walking the dog, I was astonished to see fallen leaves out under one of the trees at the front of our subdivision. Tall chocolate-trunked trees with small elliptic leaves and peeling bark had left a carpet of crunching brown and green-flicked-with-yellow scattered upon the concrete sidewalk, banking up against the compact bushes at the foot of the trees, caught between their shiny, waxy green leaves. I picked up one leaf that was ruddy-speckled and practically breathed "autumn" to me, despite the constant drone of the cicadas. Checking overhead I could see that the two spindly oak trees out front were already showing signs of browning leaves and on the opposite side of the entrance, insect-speckled maple leaves dotted the ground under their tree trunks.

And suddenly, within a day of the appearance of the leaves, the constant rising-and-falling sough of the cicadas went silent. I trod early in the morning on my long walk to avoid the heat, skirting the sun as a vampire does, but they did not return, leaving the morning sounds to the intermittent songs of the birds and, more constantly, the fiddling of the crickets. There seem to be two kinds of crickets, one group that sings the regulation, rhythmic song of individual chirps that can be counted, the others with a sweeter, higher-pitched hum that make a constant song like a lullaby. One longs to open the window and doze to their siren sound, but it's still too smothery, too sticky, too summer.

Now I can't turn to the right or left without spying some sign of an autumn valiantly trying to arrive, like the trio of trees up at the corner that have already lost their leaves, as if they are declaring, "Look, it's time we got some sleep. I don't care what temperature the sun has made it!" Or an entire empty lot scattered broadside with tossing gilded heads of goldenrod bobbing in the backwash of car exhaust. The view out the dining room windows that shows new yellow leaves popping out every day on the tulip trees. The slim leaves of the dogwood trees turning rusty as if they were left out too long in the rain. The heady scent of mulching leaves slowly accumulating under the trees trying to outdo the odor of broiling asphalt at midday.

It's so close, it's so close I can almost taste it: gingerbread, hot chocolate, apple cider. Almost feel it: soft sweatshirts, cold breezers, wind that makes you feel alive. Almost see it: leaves of gold and tangerine and bronze and scarlet, bare branches of trees, bright blue sky that hurts the eyes.

Go away, summer. You've had your miserable stinking sizzle. Let us have our joy back. Please?

Turn by Turn by Turning

It rained today, mostly a drizzle which left everything damp and grey. The interstate traffic maps were a horror of warning colors, so I took surface streets home.

The upside to this was that I wandered hither and yon through tree-filled neighborhoods and got a preview of peak color (or at least as peak as Georgia gets; we don't ordinarily get bright colors here—more muted tones). This area of the state has a high percentage of pine trees, and also trees that stay green pretty much until the leaves fall off, so the bits of color are more isolated glimpses than an all-over palette change.

As I noticed on Sunday, even further north in Ellijay, the maples have the brightest color this year, but have only a branch or two turning at the time, sometimes even the tips of the leaves only. The predominant color is yellow, except for the dogwood trees, which are in various stages of turning a rusty red color that looks like it's bleeding and puddling into the green. Occasionally, however, a collection of underbrush, like in the neighborhoods around Chastain Park, will beam brightly in the fall triumvirate of yellow, orange, and red, and a tree—again the maples—bursting with gold, russet, and scarlet, like the one standing guard outside the IBM complex off Cobb Parkway, occasionally coming into view to be greeted by choicest ooohs and ahhhs.

What some trees are blooming with most are Hallowe'en decorations: bats, ghosts, mummies, witches bashed into tree trunks. "Mr. Inflatable" on Mt. Paran Road is SRO on his front lawn: spooks, haunts, necromancers, and what looks like the Headless Horseman and I believe an inflatable hearse. The entire atmosphere was spooky on the way home anyway, low grey clouds, the occasional patter of raindrops, the creaking windshield wipers, the previously fallen leaves ground into a moist brownish-yellow paste at the roadside.

Misty October Morning

It was actually nicer about fifteen minutes earlier, but I wanted to eat my oatmeal while it was hot!

Autumn Just Around the Corner

I took the opportunity to put the fall decorations on the porch yesterday—well, part of them, anyway: the banner, the basket, the wreath. You can't walk into a store now and not see fall decorations, especially the craft stores or discount stores. We were in Big Lots today and I hugged an especially pretty autumn leaf garland. If only the rain would get out of the way to make way for a cold front. We had a nice rainy day today, only it isn't cold enough for a fire, or to even feel like making gingerbread.

Chilly fall days are perfect for this: turn on the gas, bake some gingerbread or light a gingerbread candle, find a book and enjoy, instead of gazing wistfully out at the blazing sun knowing it's 90 degrees in the shade.

It is unusual how many of the trees are starting to turn here. Usually the dogwoods start the earliest, some as early as the end of August. But there are dozens of groups of little maple trees who already have reddish leaves, or branches. One type of tree—I'm not sure what kind—already has a smattering of bright yellow leaves among the green.

I am truly homesick for fall!

In Color...

I had just finished looking at photos on the Vermont Fall Foliage website—the color was spectacular this year!; I now have their photo of Killington as my wallpaper—and just happened to read this article about hiking Vermont's Long Trail afterwards:

"Take up the trail again, follow it to a mountain crest, and you will see something that is not quite like anything else. There is nothing bleak and aloof about these mountains; they are soft, rounded, friendly giants clad in incomparably beautiful garments and holding in their laps, like toys, the homes of men. Here and there is a silver pendant on a silver chain, for there are lakes and streams without end. North and south is the tumbled green range; shading to blue in the distance; east, across the multicolored woods annd hills, are the White Mountains; west and four thousand feet below, in the oldest valley in America, Lake Champlain and its islands stretch out of sight; and close beyond are the purple Adirondacks, fold upon fold. For a hundred miles in every direction the cup of beauty is full to the brim."

Merritt Parmalee Allen, "Let's Take the Trail," St. Nicholas 1928

All painted so well in words!

A New Leaf

It's that time of year when a "young New Englander's fancy turns to thoughts of leaves" (not to mention the middle aged and old New Englander—LOL).

Here's a Mount Washington Cam and a view of Mount Washington Valley. Looks like the color will be good this year.

Not much obvious color in Providence yet from the panorama shot, however, if you click on the second picture from the right, which is the new Johnson and Wales campus (where the old Outlet Department Store used to be), several maple trees are heralding the turn of the season.

(Can't see much color here in Burlington, VT due to the camera position, but look at Lake Champlain!)

Columbus Day weekend is the traditional "leaf peeping" weekend for New Yorkers and New Englanders. Even the folks at the Yankee Magazine home headquarters have forsaken the shot of the green in Dublin, NH, in favor of the treecam.

Wonder what I-91 going toward Rockingham, VT, looks like. It parallels the Connecticut River and is lined with trees. When we went up to the Vermont Country Store there two years ago, it was way past peak.

More fall links.

Showing Their Colors

The leaves here have been so slowly turning color that it's almost as if it wasn't happening. While the saplings and short young trees have been exploding in red, orange and yellow, the large trees haven't been in a hurry.

Today, driving home, however, I noticed that the larger trees seemed to be converting to fall color rapidly. Part of this may have been from the temps in the 30s we had a few nights ago, but I think it was more because it was overcast, the sky a high, light grey. I have noticed this even in New England with the trees at their "glowingest" of scarlet, melon, and gold—I remember the Columbus Day weekend we went to Lake George, and it rained and rained, but nevertheless the trees seemed to be alight from within. One maple tree at a rest area had the most breathtaking crimson leaves I had ever seen. They never seem so bright on sunny days.

Perhaps it's because the trees have to compete with the too-brilliant sunlight and the bright blue of a fall sky, for certainly the trees didn't appear yesterday as colorful as they did today with a monochrome backdrop. Each maple in the neighborhood had at least one side that was bright with red or yellow shading into orange.