Once again the sun is slowly disappearing behind the poplar trees across the field, a ball of fire surrounded by slate grey sky, reminder of the forest fires to the north of us. All afternoon it smelled of smoke.
Another week has gone by without rain, and all around swathers and combines have been running until late into the night. Most farmers are finished with their harvest, or at least getting close. Here and there golden swaths of straw are waiting to be picked up and rolled into big round bales, or – more rarely now – pressed into small square ones. The air is hazy with dust, and today with smoke as well.
Another week has gone by without rain, and all around swathers and combines have been running until late into the night. Most farmers are finished with their harvest, or at least getting close. Here and there golden swaths of straw are waiting to be picked up and rolled into big round bales, or – more rarely now – pressed into small square ones. The air is hazy with dust, and today with smoke as well.
Dust also rises with
every vehicle passing by on the gravel road running by our house, settling on
the lilac hedge, almost in full autumn splendour. Interestingly, some lilac
bushes have turned a brilliant yellow while others are of a deep brick red,
although I believe they are generally of the same variety. The Mongolian
Cherries, small decorative bushes with delicate lance shaped leaves, were the
first to change colour in the hedgerow shielding the garden from the road. Like
the still stolidly dark green sour cherry trees will do later they display a
beautiful apricot and gold hue.
On the other side of
the driveway the three Amur Maples demand attention. The little wings
stretching out from their seeds were the first to blush deeply while the
foliage was pretending it was still summer, but now the leaves, too, have given
in, glowing from fiery scarlet to deep cardinal red. The pouring-out of colour
doesn’t stop until I’m almost at the front door: right beside the deck on the
west side of the house the Engelman Ivy catches my eye as soon as I step
outside. This tough little climber has delighted me all season, ever since Carl
brought it home in May. Unlike the Virginia Creeper, its larger-leafed cousin,
it doesn’t need any guidance to find its way up a fence or a post: its tiny
tentacles insert themselves into the smallest crevice in the wood. Now, it so
generously spreads its warm glow in a leafy pool on the rocks beside the pond,
its vines with their fingered leaves like flames licking up the balustrade.
The sun almost gone, I pick up the pail of 'neckless' onions I couldn't gather up in bunches and tie with twine. That's what I worked on during the last hour: the four neat rows of onions I had laid out a few days ago to let their papery skin toughen up and dry so that they keep are hanging in the pig barn, now only a pig barn in name: for more than fifteen years not a pig has set foot in it, and it is used for storage.
Such satisfying work, harvesting. Without haste I gather ten onions at a time in my left hand, stripping off loose outer leaves, often revealing the next layer of beautiful burnt orange in the process. The stems are wilted for the most part, but tough enough to hold the weight of the onions when I wrap the twine around them and make a tight knot. They will keep. Year after year I vow to plant one less bag of onion sets next spring, and year after year I forget, finding myself with three nets with 100 bulbs each - in theory: there are always at least 120. This year they grew well, without disease, and while we have used a lot in the last two months there are still 232 left today - enough to last us through the winter, I'm sure.
I turn over the wheelbarrow, in the unlikely case it rains overnight, and look back at the onion field, now empty except for some discarded skins. Leo has risen as well from his spot on the lawn where he watched what I was doing. It is time to go inside.
Such satisfying work, harvesting. Without haste I gather ten onions at a time in my left hand, stripping off loose outer leaves, often revealing the next layer of beautiful burnt orange in the process. The stems are wilted for the most part, but tough enough to hold the weight of the onions when I wrap the twine around them and make a tight knot. They will keep. Year after year I vow to plant one less bag of onion sets next spring, and year after year I forget, finding myself with three nets with 100 bulbs each - in theory: there are always at least 120. This year they grew well, without disease, and while we have used a lot in the last two months there are still 232 left today - enough to last us through the winter, I'm sure.
I turn over the wheelbarrow, in the unlikely case it rains overnight, and look back at the onion field, now empty except for some discarded skins. Leo has risen as well from his spot on the lawn where he watched what I was doing. It is time to go inside.