Getting to Eight

The transitions between seasons seems a bit frantic to me, as I think of all that needs to be done in our landscape. In the fall, there is pruning to be done for many shrubs, digging up and dividing of those garden perennials gone wild, and then relocating them, compost to be distributed, bulbs to be planted, holes to be dug for new plants, watering to be done, summer furniture to be put away and so forth and so on. This year I'm working around the new patio and wishing I had a clear vision of how I'd like it to look eventually. I'm not a planner by nature.

I worry less when I am outside about what needs to be done, than I do when I'm inside looking out. Being in nature is so soothing and calming, it's nearly impossible to worry there. One comes back to one's stronger self, connected to the bigger world. It's a predictable sedative.

I can picture my Aunt Thelma working lovingly in her garden and yard in the fall in her plaid Pendleton jacket. Indeed, she taught me the names of the shrubs which still roll across my tongue and mind -arborvitae, euonymous, andromeda. I think of Maggie who loved the fall but not gardening. Together we gathered basketsful of horse chestnuts on our weekend trips in New England to bring to the chidlren in our classrooms. I never knew just what to DO with them, but I bet she did.

Just being outside is bracing and reaffirming of how good it is to be alive. The cooler fall air seems to go deeper into my lungs and the winds that lick my shoulders make me shiver with delight. Above, you can see the tiny floating dock that was covered often with birds drying their wings a month or so ago.
The sky is bigger this time of year and the hue of blue is steely cold, intense, and the perfect background for the yellow beech leaves which you can't see here.
Apples aren't ordinarily the size of grapefruit in my experience, but we have a few that are immense and approaching that size. My hand is barely able to enclose this one which I am about to eat.
Sliced into eighths is my preference for apple-eating, but the slicer-corer couldn't move any further down than 1/10 of the way on this baby. I finished with a conventional knife on the appointed divisions, put the crescents on a plate and added a tablespoon of peanut butter for dipping and called it lunch. This magnificent apple came from Francis Fenton's apple orchard of heritage varieties many, many years old.