Showing posts with label fall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fall. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Flowers
perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers. ~Claude Monet
What is there to say about flowers that hasn't already been said? That they are beautiful and dazzling and provide the perfect accent in an anotherwise dull space? That they fill the world with fragrance, or that their colors mesmerize and defy characterization? Flowers are "all of the above," and then some. What sort of nature writer would I be were I to forget that they are the end to the means that millions of plants undertake to produce them?
Before fruit, there must necessarily be a flower, and before the light fades, their is often the last color we see amidst the interminable green of summer. It is the first color in spring and the last in fall as the year creeps again toward winter, dwarfed only by the changing of the leaves and defying the mornings when frost has claimed the less stalwart among them.
They drape our vales and hillsides, brighten our small hollows and ditches, and pop up in our lawns and along our woodland edges. They cascade from window boxes and baskets, paint bold swatches across fields, drip from rock walls and arbors and imbue the ocean air with a fragrance that can only be described as heaven-sent. On a more practical note, they provide us with a tangible means of celebrating certain traditions and, ideally, they make more glorious the last journey we all take from this world to the next. What else can I add that will give flowers their just due, to assign them, once and for all, the status they deserve as one of the most joyfully indispensible blessings that nature has bestowed upon us?
Like so much else, flowers came into this world, to this Earth, slowly and deliberately. Their purpose was to add a final and glorious touch to the vegetation that predated much of what we know today as annuals and perennials, as vines and shrubs, as weed and wanted plant, displaying an intricacy of color and texture not seen in other living things. They loom large or small in the landscape, from the enormous blooms of tropical flowers to the tiny blossoms of ground-cover plants so small that they escape our notice and are often trampled underfoot in our rush to get on with the processes of living.
Yet who among us does not love flowers? Who among us could find anything negative to say once we know of the miraculous journey they undertake to get here and, in some instances, such as the daylily's brief stint, to grace our lives for but a day? A morning glory opens at the first touch of sunlight then fades with the light, while a moonflower blossoms at day's end and fades with the dawn. Lady slippers appear in shady wet places in late spring and johnny jump-ups live up to their names by producing more of their own kind each year without any effort on anyone's part. Jonquils, crocuses, hyacinths and tulips usher in spring while brown-eyed Susans and Queen Anne's lace save their graces for later when the summer's heat distracts and dismays. As fall extends the year's bridge toward winter, chrysanthemums, both domesticated and wild, share their own late glory with us in field and garden when the rest have called it good for another year.
What would our lives be without flowers? Our tables, nightstands and sideboards would be bare, our yards and lawns one endless unbroken ribbon of green. Our winter holidays would be devoid of the reds and greens of poinsettias and amaryllis, while our spring festivities would take place without the lily's pure and gentle touch. From the bouquests of carnations and freesias in supermarket garden shops to the goldenrod and forget-me-nots along roadsides, flowers persist as an easily accessible source of beauty and comfort. They are small quiet blessings, appearing often in our lives when we least expect them and when we need them most.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
What is there to say about flowers that hasn't already been said? That they are beautiful and dazzling and provide the perfect accent in an anotherwise dull space? That they fill the world with fragrance, or that their colors mesmerize and defy characterization? Flowers are "all of the above," and then some. What sort of nature writer would I be were I to forget that they are the end to the means that millions of plants undertake to produce them?
Before fruit, there must necessarily be a flower, and before the light fades, their is often the last color we see amidst the interminable green of summer. It is the first color in spring and the last in fall as the year creeps again toward winter, dwarfed only by the changing of the leaves and defying the mornings when frost has claimed the less stalwart among them.
They drape our vales and hillsides, brighten our small hollows and ditches, and pop up in our lawns and along our woodland edges. They cascade from window boxes and baskets, paint bold swatches across fields, drip from rock walls and arbors and imbue the ocean air with a fragrance that can only be described as heaven-sent. On a more practical note, they provide us with a tangible means of celebrating certain traditions and, ideally, they make more glorious the last journey we all take from this world to the next. What else can I add that will give flowers their just due, to assign them, once and for all, the status they deserve as one of the most joyfully indispensible blessings that nature has bestowed upon us?
Like so much else, flowers came into this world, to this Earth, slowly and deliberately. Their purpose was to add a final and glorious touch to the vegetation that predated much of what we know today as annuals and perennials, as vines and shrubs, as weed and wanted plant, displaying an intricacy of color and texture not seen in other living things. They loom large or small in the landscape, from the enormous blooms of tropical flowers to the tiny blossoms of ground-cover plants so small that they escape our notice and are often trampled underfoot in our rush to get on with the processes of living.
Yet who among us does not love flowers? Who among us could find anything negative to say once we know of the miraculous journey they undertake to get here and, in some instances, such as the daylily's brief stint, to grace our lives for but a day? A morning glory opens at the first touch of sunlight then fades with the light, while a moonflower blossoms at day's end and fades with the dawn. Lady slippers appear in shady wet places in late spring and johnny jump-ups live up to their names by producing more of their own kind each year without any effort on anyone's part. Jonquils, crocuses, hyacinths and tulips usher in spring while brown-eyed Susans and Queen Anne's lace save their graces for later when the summer's heat distracts and dismays. As fall extends the year's bridge toward winter, chrysanthemums, both domesticated and wild, share their own late glory with us in field and garden when the rest have called it good for another year.
What would our lives be without flowers? Our tables, nightstands and sideboards would be bare, our yards and lawns one endless unbroken ribbon of green. Our winter holidays would be devoid of the reds and greens of poinsettias and amaryllis, while our spring festivities would take place without the lily's pure and gentle touch. From the bouquests of carnations and freesias in supermarket garden shops to the goldenrod and forget-me-nots along roadsides, flowers persist as an easily accessible source of beauty and comfort. They are small quiet blessings, appearing often in our lives when we least expect them and when we need them most.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
Friday, June 6, 2014
Fall-like Mornings
This place sits roughly 15 feet above the dirt road, so that I essentially look down on any passing traffic, which at this time of year, is still quite substantial. Trees grow along this north-facing slope at different heights, and one oak is close enough so that its branches are now nearly touching the siding. The combination of the height and the tree's proximity give the illusion that I am actually sitting in its branches like a bird from whose perch I am afforded the most marvelous view of life going on below.
I sit often at that particular window, primarily because of those branches. They are visible proof that these woods hold me in their vast arms in that ineffable way that trees have of providing comfort and security. On rainy days, their leaves glisten with moisture, the droplets clinging to their leathery surfaces before slipping off and falling to the earth. And on sunny days, they reflect the light, casting shadows upon the ground, upon this place and upon each other. High winds set the boughs to swaying, and in winter, when only a few dried reddish-brown stragglers remain, snowflakes accumulate in the tiny bends created by leaf stems protruding from branches. The drama of an entire year of seasons can be observed in these few branches, one from which I never tire and that, on some days, is able to restore calm to my innermost workings.
I got a notion a few years ago to grab my loppers and trim that back slope of all of its excess growth. Lots of things grow there, some whose names I know, and others that would require a bit more research to identify. I was ruthless in my cutting, and the result was a neatly trimmed drop-off that opened up a clearer view of this side of the property, restoring its illusion of suspended weightlessness. Such positioning offers privacy of a rare kind, for it is impossible to see much of the inside of this place from the road, a vantage point that affords a view of nothing more than the ceilings if the lamps are all blazing. This advantage makes curtains and window shades unnecessary, as it would be the energetic intruder who would trudge up the hill to get a closer look, especially in the winter when the ice settles in. And at that, anyone under 5 feet tall would need a ladder to look in. As it stands, no one ever pokes around up here other than the occasional neighbor's child selling candy, the folks who read the electric meter, or an invited guest or two.
One's senses become more finely tuned from living in the woods, where even the slightest unfamiliar sound gives pause. In the dead of winter, when traffic is at its lowest point, the sound of any vehicle brings me to the window, if only to see which among my few year-round neighbors has dared to venture out that day. Of course, this dirt road is never a clear indicator of what the main road is like after a storm. What seems to be an impenetrable mass of snow here has usually already been removed by the time I have to go anywhere. Yet the sense of being snow-bound persists until I get to where the dirt ends and the tarmac takes over.
This all seems like a lifetime away at this point, but experience dictates otherwise, for in not that many weeks, the wind will shift once again, bringing colder temperatures with it. The days will shorten, and the sun will smile upon a different part of the earth for awhile, leaving us to close in upon ourselves for yet another year like so many spent flower buds. For now, I sit near my window gazing upon those oak branches, willing them to stay green for as long as possible before nature and the cycle of the seasons deem otherwise.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
I sit often at that particular window, primarily because of those branches. They are visible proof that these woods hold me in their vast arms in that ineffable way that trees have of providing comfort and security. On rainy days, their leaves glisten with moisture, the droplets clinging to their leathery surfaces before slipping off and falling to the earth. And on sunny days, they reflect the light, casting shadows upon the ground, upon this place and upon each other. High winds set the boughs to swaying, and in winter, when only a few dried reddish-brown stragglers remain, snowflakes accumulate in the tiny bends created by leaf stems protruding from branches. The drama of an entire year of seasons can be observed in these few branches, one from which I never tire and that, on some days, is able to restore calm to my innermost workings.
I got a notion a few years ago to grab my loppers and trim that back slope of all of its excess growth. Lots of things grow there, some whose names I know, and others that would require a bit more research to identify. I was ruthless in my cutting, and the result was a neatly trimmed drop-off that opened up a clearer view of this side of the property, restoring its illusion of suspended weightlessness. Such positioning offers privacy of a rare kind, for it is impossible to see much of the inside of this place from the road, a vantage point that affords a view of nothing more than the ceilings if the lamps are all blazing. This advantage makes curtains and window shades unnecessary, as it would be the energetic intruder who would trudge up the hill to get a closer look, especially in the winter when the ice settles in. And at that, anyone under 5 feet tall would need a ladder to look in. As it stands, no one ever pokes around up here other than the occasional neighbor's child selling candy, the folks who read the electric meter, or an invited guest or two.
One's senses become more finely tuned from living in the woods, where even the slightest unfamiliar sound gives pause. In the dead of winter, when traffic is at its lowest point, the sound of any vehicle brings me to the window, if only to see which among my few year-round neighbors has dared to venture out that day. Of course, this dirt road is never a clear indicator of what the main road is like after a storm. What seems to be an impenetrable mass of snow here has usually already been removed by the time I have to go anywhere. Yet the sense of being snow-bound persists until I get to where the dirt ends and the tarmac takes over.
This all seems like a lifetime away at this point, but experience dictates otherwise, for in not that many weeks, the wind will shift once again, bringing colder temperatures with it. The days will shorten, and the sun will smile upon a different part of the earth for awhile, leaving us to close in upon ourselves for yet another year like so many spent flower buds. For now, I sit near my window gazing upon those oak branches, willing them to stay green for as long as possible before nature and the cycle of the seasons deem otherwise.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
Summer's Waning
And so it begins, the slow and imperceptible yet inexorable progression of summer toward fall. Daylight's hold is weakening, and the sun's morning and afternoon rays penetrate the tree canopy from a slightly different angle at slightly different times each day. Oh, there is much left yet of summer, of those bright days and warm afternoons that distract from what lies ahead. And there is yet the early fall, that dry shining time of Indian summer and nights of cooler breezes and bright stars.
It's August, my favorite summer month, and once again, the wood and hermit thrushes have departed for other haunts, for woodlands less besieged than these by winter's extremes. And it will be many months before I once again hear them plying the hot muggy nights with their flute like melodies. The blue jays are more conspicuous now, as they seem to like this time of year when their cries seem to pierce the air more sharply, and many smaller birds that make these woods their home are more vocal, almost as though they are asking "Will you feed us again this year?"
The corn stands almost as tall as I am now, and there is lots of it to see this time of year in this area where woods open upon field after field lush with that familiar greenery. A few local farmers lease land on which to grow corn, and I watch its progression from mere green specks along the neat furrows in early June to the first young stalks to the tall proud plants that fill the rows come August. Tassels will be appearing soon, indicating the formation of the ears, and a few farms hereabouts are known for their corn, with many people finding the summer incomplete without a sampling of it.
Apart from its ancient beginnings as a dietary staple, corn still figures highly in both the human and animal diet. What isn't sold by the dozen from farm stands or grocery store produce bins is processed as silage for ruminating animals such as dairy cows or as feed for deer and other wild animals. In the Midwest and other areas of long summers, it's grown to be ground into the basic ingredient that goes into cornbread or hush puppies or processed as popping corn. The corn still standing in the fields in September in this neck of the woods is more than likely destined for the silo or the corn crib, while the corn that graces our dining room or picnic tables is reaching its peak as I write with people everywhere commenting on their "first corn of the season." Species that produce the sweet white and yellow kernels are in greatest demand, as all it takes is a bit of butter and salt, and for some, a bit of black pepper to round out the treat that comes only once a year in Maine. While corn can be frozen, it rarely retains that just-picked flavor and texture that can only be achieved by plunging it into the pot as soon as it's been picked, the reason being that the breakdown of sugars in the kernels begins the moment the ears are pulled from the stalks, a natural process that significantly alters its sweetness and flavor.
It's always a somewhat melancholy moment when, one day, the corn in one particular field is standing, and the next, it has all been sheared off close to the ground, its stumps awaiting burial when the soil will be put to bed for another winter. It represents another ending, just like the wood thrush's departure and the diminishing daylight. It speaks to our ancient beginnings and yearnings, when the seasons governed our lives, and we lived by the rising and setting of the sun, a way of life whose ingrained memory I think never entirely leaves us.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
It's August, my favorite summer month, and once again, the wood and hermit thrushes have departed for other haunts, for woodlands less besieged than these by winter's extremes. And it will be many months before I once again hear them plying the hot muggy nights with their flute like melodies. The blue jays are more conspicuous now, as they seem to like this time of year when their cries seem to pierce the air more sharply, and many smaller birds that make these woods their home are more vocal, almost as though they are asking "Will you feed us again this year?"
The corn stands almost as tall as I am now, and there is lots of it to see this time of year in this area where woods open upon field after field lush with that familiar greenery. A few local farmers lease land on which to grow corn, and I watch its progression from mere green specks along the neat furrows in early June to the first young stalks to the tall proud plants that fill the rows come August. Tassels will be appearing soon, indicating the formation of the ears, and a few farms hereabouts are known for their corn, with many people finding the summer incomplete without a sampling of it.
Apart from its ancient beginnings as a dietary staple, corn still figures highly in both the human and animal diet. What isn't sold by the dozen from farm stands or grocery store produce bins is processed as silage for ruminating animals such as dairy cows or as feed for deer and other wild animals. In the Midwest and other areas of long summers, it's grown to be ground into the basic ingredient that goes into cornbread or hush puppies or processed as popping corn. The corn still standing in the fields in September in this neck of the woods is more than likely destined for the silo or the corn crib, while the corn that graces our dining room or picnic tables is reaching its peak as I write with people everywhere commenting on their "first corn of the season." Species that produce the sweet white and yellow kernels are in greatest demand, as all it takes is a bit of butter and salt, and for some, a bit of black pepper to round out the treat that comes only once a year in Maine. While corn can be frozen, it rarely retains that just-picked flavor and texture that can only be achieved by plunging it into the pot as soon as it's been picked, the reason being that the breakdown of sugars in the kernels begins the moment the ears are pulled from the stalks, a natural process that significantly alters its sweetness and flavor.
It's always a somewhat melancholy moment when, one day, the corn in one particular field is standing, and the next, it has all been sheared off close to the ground, its stumps awaiting burial when the soil will be put to bed for another winter. It represents another ending, just like the wood thrush's departure and the diminishing daylight. It speaks to our ancient beginnings and yearnings, when the seasons governed our lives, and we lived by the rising and setting of the sun, a way of life whose ingrained memory I think never entirely leaves us.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
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