Autumn Thoughts

November days and the air conditioner continues to hum.

81 degrees warm, it feels like the middle of summer, and yet of course, our nights are now dark by 5:30pm.

The trees are losing their leaves prematurely, due to the lack of rain, I'm considering unboxing the Christmas decorations.

November Days

 

Tonight our semi-annual clock fiddling takes place once again.

An hour backwards from Daylight Saving Time, affording an extra hour of sleep on these colder mornings.

Just enough time to remind us, that the year is winding down, and soon, a long sleepy winter will be our companion.

A time to regenerate our weary souls, and make new plans for the coming year ahead.

A time to dream.

 

 

" It was November - the month of

crimson sunsets, parting birds,

deep, and hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.

Anne roamed through the pineland

alleys in the park and, as she said,

let that great sweeping wind

blow the fog out of her soul.

L.N Montgomery

~ Anne of Green Gables

In The Spirit

   A little early decorating.

Just to get in the "spirit" of things.

                                                                   👻 👻👻

Indian Summer

Indian Summer is upon us. Balmy warm days, and mist-laden nights.

One last chance to indulge in fleeting Summer pleasures.

An early American writer described Indian Summer well when he wrote, "The air is perfectly quiescent and all is stillness, as if Nature, after her exertions during the Summer, were now at rest."

     

 ~ John Bradbury 1817

Season Of Mists

Autumn morning mists came calling.

The grass is wet with a heavy dew, taking most of the afternoon before it is dry to the touch.

Down on main street, shopkeepers display their pumpkins and Autumn fayre.

Orange and yellows are now the colors of the season.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells."

~ John Keats

October Days

We had our first real taste of Autumn weather last night, tonight down in the mid forties and snugly blankets will once again return to the beds.

The sound of distant laughter can be heard from giggly school children enjoying their Fall break, and down on Main Street Oktoberfest's are in full swing.

"When everything that ticked has stopped,

And space stares, all around,

Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,

Repeal the beating ground."

 Emily Dickinson, Time and Eternity, LXXV

Autumn Muskiness

 

“It was one of those sumptuous days when the world is full of autumn muskiness and tangy, crisp perfection: vivid blue sky, deep green fields, leaves in a thousand luminous hues. It is a truly astounding sight when every tree in a landscape becomes individual, when each winding back highway and plump hillside is suddenly and infinitely splashed with every sharp shade that nature can bestow - flaming scarlet, lustrous gold, throbbing vermilion, fiery orange.”

        ~ Bill Bryson

Perfection

The most perfect of Fall days. 

A mere seventy four degrees, sunshine and NO humidity, which is rare as hen's teeth for this part of the country.

Tom-Tilly is chasing leaves around the garden, she seems to have accepted that Oliver is off on his travels, wherever they may have taken him...... 

There is much garden work to do before the first frost appears, but for now, a little down-time between seasons is enjoyed, and savored.

Salt Box Houses

 Primitive New England saltbox houses.
I do seem to have a soft spot for them.

Season's End

The first time I laid eyes on this incredible English landscape painting, was in my hometown museum, I was smitten.

Depicting the ordinary, mundane chores of a gardener, at seasons end.

It reminded me of watching my grandfather, as he put his garden to rest after a successful growing season,  piles of now-spent rhubarb leaves, and endless stacks of  withered flowers.

I couldn't have been more than four years old at the time, but what an impression those days left on my early life.

A season ending, to begin again anew in just a few short months.

 

 

                                                                     Evening_Brockham

 

               Edward Wilkins Waite  (14 April 1854 – 1924)