If this were a script for a play on the twelve months it
couldn’t have been more perfectly written. Yesterday, the last day of a
glorious, glowing, golden October, we realized with surprise that it was warm
enough to have lunch out on the deck on the west side of the house – never mind
that I found this morning when I checked the weather data that yesterday’s high
had reached all of 8.5 degrees Celsius... It certainly felt a lot warmer with
the sun as high in the sky as it will get at this time of year, and the single
wasp tasting first honey, then apricot jam must have been under the same
illusion.
Today, the tall spruce sticking out above the poplar grove I can
see from my bed was doing its dance in the dim light of morning: windy, I
thought. No sign of the bright light of Venus holding court with Jupiter and
Mars, the amazing morning display of the last couple of weeks: the sky was
grey, with clouds hanging low, and when I looked out to the west I couldn’t see
the neighbour’s field across the road, shrouded in dense fog. Nothing could have
spelled ‘November’ more clearly, the break from the day, the month before not
been more decisive.
It is strange how a day like this can create a sense of
anticipation, even bordering on happiness in me, especially considering how
soon I tire of it. For today, however, it felt just right, fitting. The bitter aroma
of fallen leaves, their thick, soft carpet inviting me to shuffle my feet
in them, to make a trail soon closing over again, the mist clinging to eye lashes
and skin, the sound of drops heavily hitting the ground after slowly letting go
of the branches they caused to sparkle even in the pearly-grey light of a sunless
day – maybe it is a remnant of childhood memory, maybe the feeling that it is
good and right that the year should now be closing in on itself.
The fog lifted in the course of the morning, but
intermittent drizzle stayed with us all day, and my knees got totally soaked
and cold on my walk along the fence line of the home quarter with Leo late this afternoon. Magpies
and crows are the birds most visible in this monochrome landscape, but in the
trees around the house the hoarse calls of blue jays and happy chatter of
chickadees remind us that there is more variety left than that.
Sometime after dark the quiet patter of light rain on the
roof became even quieter, ominously so. A glance out of the window confirmed
the suspicion: it had started to snow. Now, four hours later, the layer of snow
has grown to maybe five centimetres, and it shows no sign of quitting.
Yesterday’s meal on the deck already seems far, far away.
Spoiled by weeks upon weeks of beautiful fall weather it sometimes felt as if this could last forever, and I took my time harvesting what was left in the garden. Remembering years when I had to wear gloves digging carrots, shivering through hasty retrieval efforts, almost needing to use a crowbar to remove leeks from already frost-hard soil I had at least taken advantage of an especially warm, dry afternoon a couple of weeks ago to harvest them. The only thing left now are five red cabbages and one huge white one, probably weighing in at about six kilograms. I better bring them in now, before the snow is joined by harder frost. Kale, too, is still waiting patiently.
Aware of the extraordinary gift I was receiving way past the
time I could reasonably have expected to I kept picking little bouquets of
sweet peas or calendula, corn flowers, Siberian wallflower and alyssum. That,
too, will be over now, to be replaced by dry grasses, twigs and seed heads.
There is a time for everything.
~~~~~~~~~~
Now, a few hours later, it has become very clear that this is the time for snow, possibly even the beginning of winter. This is what we woke up to this morning:
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