Heavy Skies

Monday

Dark clouds never show when you want them _ bright day, white stretches, no complaints.

This summer was full of rain, but those storms seemed filled with light anyway. November rains and November skies are different. Perhaps because the sun is dimmer and lower, clouds are dark and threatening, dramatic and purple. When darkness accompanies precipitation scenes are cast into deep twilight.
Now there are many fewer hours of daylight. Only a few of them, on the best of days, are filled with bright sparkle and blinding flash. When that happens, the contrast with the “new normal” is all the more intense. Far more often such moments feel like temporary breaks in some coming apocalypse, heralded by the moaning swish of dry falling leaves and the deep cutting chill of raw wind.

Tuesday

Low tide exposes rocks and old pilings, reminding us of spare months to come.

We can easily find patterns in ink blots, reflections, leaves, fate, tea leaves, entrails, history, economics, politics, and clouds. Faces, dragons, random images appear to warn, frighten, entertain, or soothe. Our rational natures know it is our projections that create these shapes, but our deeper reptile emotions believe there must be truth lurking behind what we intuit.
Most of the time we hardly notice clouds, except as comment on likely weather. Once in a while we may admire ethereal beauty in a sunset, or enjoy a frisson of danger as thunderclouds sweep near. Yet they are always there, in reality or potential, framing a large chunk of our outside world.
November clouds signal holidays to me _ Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year. Their immense dark waves, or thick quilts, or foggy damp should create a mood of gloom. Yet I feel none, I am secured against these wisps of vapor, and I have carefully buried most of my hidden fears under the rush of exciting days upcoming.

Wednesday

Hardly typical of November, a solitary puff floats over the dock.

I wandered lonely as a cloud …
Clouds are rarely alone in the sky, often massing in crowds, mobs, and hordes.

Thursday

Reeds in final feathery fall splendor before being ravaged by storm and snow.

Late fall is muted earth colors, as all the flash and dazzle of summer blooms and spectacular dying gasps of foliage fade and fall more or less silently away. As the world turns brown, the sky takes its turn at dominance, and will hold it for a while. Are those fair weather clouds, or wind, or rain, or possibly a blizzard?
The various changes wrought by overcast have their own effect on the hues seen below. A clear sky seems to give true colors _ until we observe the blue of snow from reflections. Purple or grey overhead sets its own deep patterns on everything. And we become aware how a seemingly warm day can suddenly turn cold and raw whenever a shadow occludes the sun _ accompanied by immediate darkness that chills right back into our soul.

Friday

I am too amateur to retouch such views from our porch, sometimes mesmerizing for half an hour or so.

Skies have apparently always held portents, from meteors to supernovae to the creeping of the sun lower or higher each day except at the equator. More transient flights of birds and cloud patterns were also thrown into the mix. Clouds, at least, do more or less equate to what may happen. Winter coming back in the northern hemisphere, snow, or rain herald a true time of changes and often hardship.
Surely blood-red sunsets were more meaningful to native American than the usual midsummer cheerful displays of sparkling gold and crimson. Perhaps there were fewer such back before heavy industrial pollution. Even in our science-minded time, it seems hard to ignore what such clouds are trying to tell us.

Saturday

Wind clouds crouch on the northern horizon, beyond this patch of clear crisp breeze.

“Hey Carl, nice day! Dig out the winter gear yet?”

Carl glances up at the threatening cloudbank hovering on the northern horizon. “About a week ago. But this month it’s pretty useless no matter what.”

“Just colder, that’s all …” I begin

“No, you know better. Rain is much warmer. It’s the clear days that come with frigid temperatures.”

“Well, sometimes,” I admit. We both sense the freshening breeze.

“True mostly,” he insists. “Gotta run, still a mile to go and I’m not sure I have the time.”

“Right, have a nice day.” I speed up a bit myself as the first drizzled drops begin.

Sunday

Crystalline waters free of algae with a few floating leaves reflect impossibly complicated possible patterns.

Dark low clouds may fit my mood

Or I may find they contradict

I alone invest portent

It’s true the world is but a stage

But we are not bit players here

I am sole author of this play

Plot and meaning, self and clouds.

Its only audience.

Thanks! But?

Monday

Morning sun through Japanese maple leaves generates an incredible stained glass magnificence.

These days I always seem to be in the best of times, with the fear of the worst of times upcoming. Every morning I am infinitely grateful for all I have, tangible and intangible. My particular life is a festival and wonder. My worst sin would be not recognizing that is so. Thanks on any given day are required.
This culture always expects a “but.” There are always counterarguments to optimism, happiness, and hope. I hear them all the time; I try to resist. When I do, even I recognize I sometimes seem like some shallow bumpkin unable to appreciate the cares and woes of the adults in the room.
I try to purge myself of envy of those who seem to have more. I try to avoid guilt for those who have less. I try to appreciate each moment as the treasure it is. And I work on shoving most of my worries into the constant future where they belong.

Tuesday

Temporary near-break in thick wind clouds provides all the drama this cold morning.

My amazement starts with breakfast. I know slow eating has become a cultural phenomenon, but mine is more basic. I consciously pause a few of my usual spoonfuls of Cheerios and fresh berries to regard them as miracles. Think of sowing and growing and harvesting and preparing and transporting and selling and then the fact that I have the means to purchase. It is a stream of commerce I can hardly comprehend. And it happens every day, not just on one or two special times a year.
The little things that everyone _ and I admit myself _ takes for granted are everywhere. My house is warm and dry. A hot morning shower was all but unknown less than a century ago. I am more concerned with keeping my weight down than going hungry. Electricity does my bidding _ but you know how it goes on and on.
I cultivate this sense of wonder and try to find at least one aspect of daily to marvel at. It is scary to realize how tangled our comfortable lives are, and how quickly it might all go wrong.

Wednesday

Light blue sky, dark azure water, white blazing sun shines on trees shedding leaves, harbor losing boats.

“Wheat and tares together sown …”
We still do not know what to do with human weeds in civilized fields.

Thursday

Solitary leaf presides over a dark scene presaging winter.

Awe is essentially a religious feeling, far deeper than mere appreciation. Awe involves suddenly being struck by the immensity of everything and how impossible our existence is. For example, I can never comprehend the fact that I exist _ my trillions of cells, billions or trillions of synapses possibly outnumbering stars in the universe, my ongoing microsecond chemical changes everywhere in perfect harmony and furious activity. And that is before I even open my senses and look at what is around. Before I even remember there is a past filled with more miracles. Before I have time to worry about what it all means or is it connected or might there be some grand unknowable plan.
Logically minded scientific principles would seem to narrow this to less infinite answers. But science never avoids awe. The more that is known, the more ridiculously impossible our lives seem. The more incongruously joyful my life has been. I cannot even begin to understand, for that matter, the foundation of my most important traits such as the ability to sense happiness.
This holiday, I pledge to cultivate awe more assiduously. Awe of being as a foundation for religious impulse is probably completely “meet and proper.”

Friday

Final fall colors blaze before endless wind and rain herald the new season.

Leftovers are often served with gravy. In the fifties, gravy was a standard way to hide odd flavors or to extend food. Gravy was found on many of my dinners, on school lunches, on commercial offerings, on the brand-new frozen TV dinners. That gravy of old was thick, and rich, and salty, and fatty, and made poor pickings seem elegant.
But, by the same token, it was a lower middle class standard. Wealthy people might eat roasts “au jus” but creamed and gravy-laden fare was for stick-to-the-ribs working folks. The “gravy train” _ a ticket to work a little less for a secure income _ was an aspiration of those whose lives were filled with relentless jobs and barely adequate income.
With increasing wealth and choice, gravy and cream are rarely featured on recipes, except at nostalgic moments
such as with Thanksgiving turkey. Those who embrace the imagined glow of such times should sometimes reflect on what gravy _ and for that matter feast days themselves _ imply about normal life the rest of the time.

Saturday

All that remains of a once-vibrant pine along the shore, the last of its kind in that habitat.

Joan and I sit alone, dining on remembrances this Thanksgiving.

“Oh,” she says with a sigh, “I miss those old days with everyone here.”

“Yeah, I know,” I reply. “Your Mom cooking, your Dad proud, brothers chatting while young kids run around and your cousins and aunts stopping by all day, maybe us visiting around a little.”

“Wasn’t it all amazing? What happened?”

“Death, of course. Growing up. Moving away. You know that. But we still have the memories of good times.”

“It’s all changed now,” she complains. “I wish we could at least get our kids to come back.”

“The world itself has changed,” I say for the hundredth time. “Greg has to work, Wayne is too far, and we ourselves are a little too busy and tired to rush about visiting.”

“But it should be more special.”

“Maybe. I don’t think so. Every day is special, and we can always have another dinner when they are here.”

“It’s not the same,” she claims with finality.

Sunday

Last seeds cling to dry stalks as autumn winds shift to winter strength and night chill turns to freeze.

Amazing grace, a pretty tune

Used too frequently

I don’t feel at all like a wretch

Though I may sometimes seem one

My universe is more eternal than ten thousand years

And encompasses infinite realms real and unreal

What I experience in my universe is all the universe there is

As is your own

Solipsistic madness perhaps

More likely truth.

Free Falling

Monday

The reluctant deluge has just begun and is beautifully transforming in its own unique way.

I am as fickle as the next person. On any given day I can happily accept the weather or fretfully resist. My mood varies by season and by my interpretation of season.
For example, spring can be long and dreary and endless, promise with no fulfillment. Or it can be a time of wonderful surprise as hidden things grow and blossom. Summer hot and sticky and stultifying or a fantastic feast of senses. And fall _ well October always seems a month of sadness, encapsulating all that is going away and being lost, expanding beyond the yard, the horizon, the skies themselves until it encompasses aging itself.
But now _ well for me that has passed. As nights chill down to frost and days struggle to retain memory of heat, I discover new purpose. Fortify against the coming winter. Enjoy nature closing the show, as I would the deconstruction of a traveling tent circus. Make plans for dark evenings and fireside meditation. Await the first snow with expectation, and get into the spirit of our over-the-top end of year festivities.
I admit I am inconstant beyond measure or logic.

Tuesday

Bittersweet fruit at peak of perfection, a cheery holiday accent and presumed delicacy for birds.

Raking leaves when I was employed was a tremendous chore, squeezed into weekend hours between other errands. I used a rake and enjoyed the silence and felt virtuous at engaging in outside exercise. These days, there is no silence, I have all the time necessary, and I have acquired a strong (electric) leaf blower like everyone else.
Maple leaves fall first, thickly matting whenever harsh November rains pelt down. If not removed, they kill grass and smother flower beds, drying their top layers each week for months just enough to continue to blow everywhere. Heavy, ugly, dark, and somehow never decaying the way garden guidebooks proclaim.
Next are the hickories, which are a totally different prospect. These compound leaves remain together, stay dry, cling to everything. Without much weight, their volume fills bag after bag. They hang on shrub branches and if not removed by hand will flap there all winter, looking out of place, annoying by their refusal to move on. Sometimes, I know by experience, they will last another entire season. So they are not just to be raked, but also to be plucked from shrubs by hand.
Oh well. Two or three weeks of effort and it is all literally in the bag for another year.

Wednesday

The brown tide of freezing nights coats everything with a temporary dark varnish like that once applied to old-master paintings.

It is inevitable that each leaf must fall.
It is impossible _ from math, science, common sense _ to predict exactly when.

Thursday

Lovely earth hues frame much of the earth, sea and sky this week.

The relative warmth this year has led to procrastination in winterizing. I found it almost silly to be bringing hoses in, draining and turning off outside water, cleaning summer objects from the patio. The air was warm, the sun hot, the leaves still green. Why not wait just another day, until the clues from the environment matched up with the notes from the calendar?
But with a lifetime of experience, I stayed with the planned schedule. I admit I feel a bit smug now that frost has arrived. Not so much compared to other people _ they can do as they will with no concern from me _ but compared to the myself-that-might-have-been. I can now sit back and warmly laugh at what might have been a nasty business.

Friday

Fat and settled in for the winter, ducks calmly cruise across a shallow pond.

My sky is opening up. Each morning I sit for an hour before a picture window as I nurse my coffee and coax my mind back to full focus. My view is constrained by an azalea bush below, an andromeda along the side _ both stay green all year. No mountains, seas, or city skyline for me _ just a nearby japanese maple tree, and dense huge hickories and oaks beyond that.
All summer, there are mere glimpses of sky. In October the color show begins on various leaves. And finally, through November, light breaks through as leaves fall. Already I there is more openness. Soon there will be clouds, birdflight, and full beams shining through branches. I will be able to view weather as it arrives, and note each snowflake as it falls.
Elsewhen perhaps I would have wished a more dramatic view of surf or hi
gh peaks or towering buildings. But now I am more than content with what is offered and I strive to each day find it miraculous in its own way. As is each sip of coffee that I savor.

Saturday

Shriveling willow streamers blow almost horizontal in a blustery north gale.

Our grandson toddler is wheeled around Hecksher Park, where the leaves are all gold and orange, the geese flock is thick, and the turtles have already gone into hibernation. He wants to talk, perhaps he imagines he is talking, but all that emerges are moans and babble. We talk back anyway.

“errrrrrr. Baw bye brrr.”

“That’s right, Nicholas, see how pretty the trees are.”

“flabbb bbbk hmmmmm”

“Yes, there are a lot of geese this year.”

“heaaaa heaaaa bllllk.”

“We know you really like puppies. That’s a cute one, isn’t it?”

“Arrk arrk bye maa maaan.”

“Little kids are indeed exciting.”

I kick up a few more leaves swirling around my feet as the November winds rush by.

Sunday

Part of a large flock of ducks/geese rides out a strong wind; most will probably move on soon.

A single leaf.

Months old, billions of cells.

Molecules frantically churning light into sugars, water delivered, food produced.

A massively profound miracle.

Discarded.

Life goes on.

Voter Freud

Monday

Flood tide from a full “Hunter’s Moon” as mist softens contours and hues.

In France, he was always portrayed as “the man on the white horse.” A strong leader who could single-handedly solve every problem. A true father for the nation. Our last election, for many, attempted to give us such a person. All that it proved is that one does not have to be a drunk to be an incompetent, mean and abusive parent.
Modern citizens have an Oedipus complex, or maybe just a love/hate relationship with their governments. As libertarians point out, most people want protective security from foreigners and from crime. As liberals claim, most industrialized citizens expect guarantees of at least minimal food, clothing and shelter. The rest is just details _ extremely contentious details.
Everyone hates to pay for it; and nobody likes officious nosy bureaucrats constantly nagging or worse. The nanny state clearly ends with “what is not forbidden is mandatory.” Is there any viable alternative? We vote and hope and the people on white horses promise whatever is necessary to be elected.

Tuesday

Southdown Elementary is a typical cookie-cutter school hastily constructed for the baby boom of the 50’s.

Southdown elementary school serves as our voting place. An easy walk for me, more difficult for others, and inconvenient when I was working. It seems somehow medieval in these electronic times to have to show up anywhere in person and stand in line, be identified, and make a few marks on paper. Yet, I imagine, it is still safer than the internet where it would be relatively easy to create a few million fake virtual citizens.
It brings to mind how very many of our traditions are so outdated as to be ridiculous _ just waiting for reform by the next revolution. Criminal justice should have a special niche for true open and shut cases where public acts are committed observed by camera and confirmed by DNA _ eliminate all the months of stupidity and have the trial and sentencing the next week. There are other practices too numerous to count.
Anyway, I go, I stand in line, I vote, I feel virtuous enough. And yet, I do wonder if all this works any more, or if we are just practicing an ancient superstitious religious rite hoping that it will make our universe or government any better than it might otherwise be.

Wednesday

Vibrant meadow colors glow under threatening skies at Caumsett, days before predicted hard frost.

What a relief it is …
Political phone calls, pamphlets, door visitors, and television ads have finally vanished.

Thursday

Lots of folks fishing off the Cold Spring Harbor docks for striped bass and bluefish, which venture near shore this time of year.

Regulations, like history, are usually written by the winners. The winners these days are large corporations or organized guilds _ and no matter how well-intentioned any regulation might be initially, its inevitable outcome is to raise barriers to entry, promote oligopoly and monopoly, and help employ legions of lawyers who assure that only the wealthy can use it to advantage.
Furthermore, many regulations are passed by amateurs who are only concerned with public relations and winning elections. Most of them are directed at abuses by a few, rewritten into unintelligibility by highly paid lobbyists and applied harshly to everyone. As Anatole France noted: “The law, in its majestic equality, forbids rich and poor alike to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal their bread.” A regulation by its very essence lacks common sense. It is applied by the letter of the law, never by its intent. A few old people sharing wine at a table in a park may not be the same as a gang of drunken teenagers ravaging the landscape, but both are equally forbidden by the same ordinance.
The wealthy hate taxes. They need no parks because they have estates, no food or home inspections because they purchase impeccably, no schools because they use private tutors, no roads because their servants can find a way or use helicopters, no social safety net because they cover their own. They want lots of police to keep the rabble under control, and strong courts to enforce the contracts which assure their wealth. They are, as the saying goes, different from you and me.
Most of the population hates meddlesome bureaucrats, and the most hard working or entrepreneurial middle class hates them most of all.

Friday

At least one patch of red in front of all the boats now being frantically landed and stored.

Politicians are not necessarily evil, but like everyone else in this supposedly meritocratic society they have a big chip on their shoulder from being cheated out of their rightful due. In a position of power, they seek to guarantee their own financial and physical security, not only during their own terms, but for ages to come.
This is most apparent in recent developments in our town hall, where security is now similar to that at major airports. God forbid an angry citizen should be able to get to the taxation clerks. Spare no expense lest the bureaucracy should be confronted in their sacred duties.

Saturday

Reeds already in winter mode as a hard frost sweeps into town on whitecap-driving north wind.

Political phone calls, political ads on television, political fliers flood the mail.

“I may be awful, but I’m not as bad as my opponent.”

“Don’t vote for her, she got a bad mark on her permanent record in 5^th grade.”

“My opponent may not be evil incarnate, but he is trying hard.”

“If you are unhappy about anything, it’s all their fault.”

“The barbarians are at the gates and she wants to open the gates and serve them dinner.”

If only they were honest and said something like

“Hey, I can do this as well as anybody, since everybody is so bad. Put me on the gravy train and I will be eternally grateful
Sunday

After the freeze, before the thaw, a remnant purple glow

Happy Days are here again

We’ll make America Great again

Society will be Great then

Happy days are here again

Everything starts perfect now

It’s stupid to go ask me how

Magic printed money now

Happy days are here again.

Season of the Witch

Monday

Witches and Ghosts flying fiercely in strong wind, miniature, unthreatening creatures except at night.

People react as strangely to prosperity as they do to adversity. At the time of the Black Death, chains of people danced through the streets, while others played erotic games like those in Boccaccio. Today there is a wave of brutal terror and horror films, rising interest in the day of the dead and its like being a jovial social holiday.
Perhaps it is more comforting to confront deep fears we can visualize _ death, uncontrollability of life, huge issues like global warming _ are too abstractly frightening to focus on for long. In a time of increasing economic and social anxiety, there is a release in having a solid skeleton or evil clown coming at us.

Tuesday

Our neighborhood has not been too badly terrorized by oversize yard displays _ this one is kinda cute.

Not long ago, vast yard displays were reserved for Christmas. But now lots of holidays have somebody trying to outdo the other, and Halloween is no exception. When our boys were growing up, a single crudely carved pumpkin or homemade scarecrow (shirt and pants stuffed with leaves, painted old pillowcase as a head) was more than enough. But now, Halloween has taken its rightful place in the land of the obese. More pumpkins than a farm, spinning lights on houses, anatomically correct plastic skeletons and yards filled with spider webs and anything else anyone can market.
Yet at the same time, the oddly joyful evening has vanished. Children would rather go to parties, like their parents. Guardians are terrified of poisoned candy (or apples, I suppose.) Elderly homeowners refuse to open their doors to uncredentialed strangers, especially odd-looking ones. Youth-run households don’t answer the doorbell at all without an associated smart-phone text.
It is all inevitable, and a bit sad, and seems to represent something profound about how the American character has changed. Thinking about that is scary indeed.

Wednesday

Hard to find color this year, even in usually reliable cemetery locations, as November begins.

Suffer not a witch to live ….
Unless, of course, she is on our side

Thursday

Finally enough color everywhere to resemble an impressionist landscape.

Halloween is now worldwide, mostly an extension of year-round horror and apocalyptic entertainment. The common theme is good happy people destroyed by uncontrolled evil _ either all at once or one by one by some unstoppable force.
Those, of course, represent the true fears of our age. Will life or happiness be extinguished by job loss, drunken car crash, cancer, terrorism, crime, or some universal catastrophe? Or any of the other reiterated issues slammed to our attention by pundits and politicians and interest groups.
Some escape into addicted obliviousness. For the rest there is only enforced focus and packaging those fears into something tangible like a movie or holiday. Which, hopefully, we can laugh at and then ignore.

Friday

Almost too many beautiful scenes _ well, there always are but I tend to take them for granted.

When I was a young child, little was as scary as skittering leaves on dark eerily moonlight nights as suddenly cold winds moaned through the trees. Forced to go out and encounter such was a lesson in controlling fear and overcoming it with brave costumes and the promise of sweet rewards.
As the child is in the man, I still get a shiver sometimes when I walk down the driveway on such evenings. I carry within me the ghosts of all I have known, and the common fear of the grim reaper of death and the grey reapers of declining capacity. I try to appreciate the beauties of the moment, but my deeper soul can discern closing foot prints.

Saturday

Tropical annuals in midsummer form, as daylight saving time ends.

“Hi, Karen, how was Halloween this ye
ar?” asks Mark as they meet while picking out broccoli at the market.

“Very good, thank you, and …”

“I went as a witch!” pipes up Lisa from down below.

“I wanted to be a witch,” her friend David mutters sullenly. “They made me go as stupid Batman.”

“Boys can’t be witches,” states Lisa firmly.

“Oh, dear, one of those?” asks Karen.

“Yeah,” sighs David. “No matter PC and all that, in this culture witches are traditionally women, after all.”

“It’s fiction at this point,” notes Karen. “They’ll grow out of it soon enough.”

“One can only hope.”

Sunday

Goldenrod in its final stage graces the waterfront with fluff and spikes.

A witch with her broom flying high

Did unspeakable acts in the sky

When asked to explain

She said she felt no shame:

“A modern girl’s just gotta try.”

Squirrelly

Monday

Usually flaming tree at Mill Dam park shows subdued hues this year.

Squirrels race about to grab and bury plentiful nuts in the lawn. Chipmunks and birds stuff themselves to put on fat reserves. Trees are finally getting into the act, color breaks out overhead, even as the ground becomes more and more stiff dull brown. This year, the transition seems more condensed than usual, a frantic week or two in what is otherwise an extended month of change.
Humans of course get into the act. There are suddenly lots of chores which are pleasant enough while the weather is fine and slightly cool, but absolutely awful tasks once the deep cold, frost, November gales, and heavy rains set in. Plant bulbs, clean yards, put away summer stuff. Not to mention trying to squeeze in a few more moments pleasantly walking through woodlands, sitting on the beach, or just strolling around the neighborhood.

Tuesday

Boats are now coming in for winter storage, a constant and busy noise at these docks.

Our patio is almost its own microclimate: shielded from the north winds by the house, facing south although partially shaded, flagstones to retain heat. Joan tends it carefully every spring and summer, sadly watches its decline in autumn, and has only the feeding birds to remind her of its floral glories in warmer months.
The spring and fall are busy times. In October, after things die back but before (hopefully) the onset of nasty weather, we have to bring in things like the umbrella and bistro set, drain the fountain. Clear out dozens of pots and place them under an overhang to be sheltered from snow. Clear flower beds of weeds and dying growth. Plant bulbs for the spring. Put hoses into the shed. I get tired just listing things to do _ but the fact is that like many such things, thinking about them is harder than just getting them done.

Wednesday

A few trees are fully denuded, but they seem almost out of place.

If you don’t like the weather, wait an hour.
Applicable this month _ if you do like the weather, seize each transitory moment.

Thursday

Last vestiges of warmth reflecting in calm waters.

I imagine by now hibernating creatures have their burrows well prepared. Migratory birds are far along their allocated flyways. Annuals have condensed into nothing but seeds. Deciduous trees are about the make their annual statement to the landscape, announcing to one and all what season has come.
Indoors, we have some of the same rituals. Put away the bathing suits and shorts. Get out the gloves and long pants and wool caps and boots. Check the status of the snow shovels. At least locate the long underwear, flannel shirts, and heavy socks. We may not hibernate, but our homes also reflect what is happening outside the windows.

Friday

Chipmunks grab some last bites for dinner before their upcoming long nap.

Centuries ago, especially in Europe and its northern colonies, this was a time of feasting, if there were to be any feasting. Beginning in September as some of the fruits and vegetables were so abundant that “use it or lose it” became true, through the shortest day to come, it was almost obligatory to add every extra pound of fat for warmth and to help through the lean times to follow.
Now we feast every day, year round, and never get into enforced starvation nor limitations. Yet the feast days remain in autumn, always encouraging to eat more, as if we were woodchucks or chipmunks or bears. We look at such creatures and rationalize “ah, we are just like them, so this extra weight is fine and natural.” But we are not.

Saturday

Squirrels busily hide nuts by digging holes all over our lawn. I can’t believe they find them later.

“Mommy, I don’t want to wear this jacket.”

“It’s cold, dear, you must or you will get a cold.”

“But it makes me sweat. I don’t like it, I can’t run fast.”

“You will need to get used to it, this is just the start. Look at the trees.”

“What about them, Mommy?”

“See how they are colored? Soon all the leaves will fall down as they go to sleep.”

“But I still don’t want my jacket. Can I at least leave it open?”

“Ok, dear,” she replies with a smiling sigh.

Sunday

Last leaves on the vines climbing evergreens add their subtle fall colors to the mix.

Violin’s autumn sobs are long

But not in this bright warmer year

I stroll about no jacket on

Untouched by normal season’s fear.

Uncertain world resists the rhymes

Contradicts each mournful song

I find it comforting to find

That poetry is sometimes wrong.

All Fall Down

Monday

As weather fronts arrive, differing heats of air, land, and sea produce lovely mists and fogs.

Dramatic changes in two weeks have heralded the entry into colder weather. Almost overnight, literally overnight in some cases, leaves switched from green to gold. Scarlet above became common. Orange gleamed on hills. And beneath was brown, more brown, and piles of brown.
Some seasons glide in gracefully, almost unnoticed. That is unfortunately often the pattern in spring, when I keep expecting better weather than there could possibly be. This autumn has held on to summer conditions way beyond normal. Although much appreciated, that has left little time for transition to cold wind and bare branches.

Tuesday

Nuts make for treacherous footing especially if I don’t get them up before hidden by fallen leaves.

For weeks now, hickory nut bombs have been shattering on pavement or denting roofs and unwary cars underneath. Many split open as they hit hard surfaces. Squirrels rush about digging holes in gardens and lawns, frantically hiding larders in hopes of discovering them when the ground freezes.
Hickory is barely edible, if there is absolutely nothing else available. But I find them a constant nuisance, and simply scoop them up in heavy pails to put out with the rest of the yard waste. I suppose they compost with the leaves and branches at our town site, but sometimes it seems more like throwing out heavy wooden furniture and hoping it will decompose in any reasonable time.

Wednesday

The deluge has begun _ just barely _ at the top of our driveway.

Ring around the rosie ….
Cheerful black death ditty proving humans can grimly laugh at anything.

Thursday

Milkweed seeds setting off to find a homestead for next year.

Colors are now sneaking onto the scene like unexpected guests. Suddenly a patch of brilliant crimson, or a long splash of astounding gold will announce summer has in fact ended. Meanwhile the greens get just a bit more drab, the weeds a lot more brittle and brown, and the butterflies and bees much less numerous.
Warm temperatures have made this October a great time to be outdoors, although some are grumbling that it remains far too humid and hot for their taste. I love the fact that I have been able to sit on the water or on a park bench still without heavy jacket, soaking in sun for the last time before dark months and chill settle in for their long siege.

Friday

In spite of lots of greenery, this scene with grasses could only appear in October.

Dogwoods have faithfully recorded the passing of days. Berries have turned bright red and fallen to the ground. Leaves have gradually shown dark scarlet veins, then lost almost all their green hue, and are now crisping and falling quickly as rains settle in. Soon their branches will again be bare against the purpling sky.
Dogwoods represent perhaps the most noble and consistent local ornamentals. Their blossoms signal that true spring has arrived, their airy canopies provide light shade all summer, and their strange branching patterns are always fascinating when covered with new snowfall. But in autumn, although hardly as spectacular as some maples, they change almost like clockwork, and always remind me of what is really going on in spite of the day to day weather.

Saturday

Barry hoists a heavy machine onto his back with a groan as sunbeams flicker horizontally. “Boy, I’m glad this is the last one. What a day.”

“Yeah, Peterson’s was nasty,” agrees Juan. “That woman, she is some kind of evil.”

“Every damn leaf, even under the shrubs.”

“These people, they are truly crazy, I think.”

“No, Juan, no. Poor people are crazy. Rich people are eccentric. Look around. These are all rich people.”

“I wonder what they do to have so much?”

“So does everyone,” laughs Barry. “So does everyone.”

With a tug and mutual roars only partially shielded by big ear protectors, they begin yet another Sisyphean task.

Sunday

Pokeweed berries shining but undisturbed, probably because of the extravagant banquet available everywhere else.

Once upon a time, I hear

You didn’t need a weatherman

For wind direction, far or near

A task that anybody can

But modern times we specialize

Need web-wide facts to get along

Don’t trust our mind, nor ears, nor eyes,

Our simple finger might be wrong.

Is it fall, do leaves come down?

From in this room I cannot know

Too busy to go look around

And tell which way the wind may blow.

Over The Hills

Monday

Centuries-old beech finally felled by disease, another part of our historic community vanished into memory.

I accuse myself of increasingly ignoring the wider world. Digging into my own patch of paradise to appreciate it more, I screen out tragedy and portent and disengage from guilt. This is, perhaps, wrong. There are small chores to be done, family matters to handle, our own daily routines.
But what our civilization increasingly seems to lack is a well-developed personal center. All the running and shopping and eating and entertaining and confusion appears not only shallow, but unsatisfying to deeper instinct. Like most, I have been too busy in life to deeply contemplate. Now, if ever, is the time I can do do.

Tuesday

Joan and the neighbors decorate yards and porches with reminders of the season.

Happily, some bats are back, darting about overhead in twilight. They had almost disappeared for a few years, victims of white-nose disease. There was apparently nothing anyone could do to save them, and if indeed they are recovering it will be from their own biological processes.
This is how it is with many things. Can any one of us save local bats? A friend who has bat-houses on his home also noticed the severe decline, but remained helpless. Like so many things, we seem to have power to spare and knowledge to fix, but we have both less power and less knowing than our hubris would have us believe. Not much more to be done than to take notice and hope.

Wednesday

Like turning leaves, boats will soon mostly vanish from scenery as winter preparations continue.

The farther you go …
It is possible to learn more, but also possible to be blind to what you see.

Thursday

Unexpected morning glories glow in late morning deep into the season.

There are current fads to apply scientific methodology to our interior ecologies. I am always amused at this or that latest finding in such things as selfishness or happiness. None of those experiments can be easily replicated, and even the conclusions are debatable depending on how one interprets the results. Humans are much too complex for such things to work.
I wish our electronic age would start to put some real effort into a modern philosophy. The moldy scraps we still use _ ancient Greeks and more ancient prophets, discredited economists, the confused babblings of the enlightenment writers _ do not provide much comfort in these unsettled times.

Friday

Flashes of color here and there can be stunning, but usually we are in too much of a hurry to notice.

In this later than usual season, I have been pleasantly surprised to finally notice a few monarch butterflies. I was even more astonished at a hovering hummingbird seeking nectar from a purple phlox right outside the window. Here, then suddenly gone, as if hallucinated.
I wish to believe that even now there remain wild spaces beyond this narrow heavily populated zone. Somewhere butterflies romp freely, hummingbirds congregate, and fish thrive. But I know all too well that is more an illusion than reality. I fear some of these visitors who bring me such joy are the last of a declining multitude, and that each must be cherished as possibly the last one.

Saturday

Autumn becoming more obvious with each passing day.

Out in late twilight putting garbage at the end of the driveway. The sound of insects and tree frogs is overwhelming, so different than the birdsong of early morning. Nobody else around, but glows emanate from windows everywhere. It is easy to imagine what sounds would be coming out, if anyone had windows open.

“Three dead in latest shooting incident …”

“Korea threatens and the president responds angrily in spite o
f …”

“More bad news from school scores …”

“Police reports claim that …”

“The latest massive study of the effects of red meat and avocados reports that …”

“Hurricane gathers strength, latest in series of natural disasters to strike Florida tomorrow.”

A faint siren wails from town.

Troubles all around, apparently troubles everywhere but here. I gaze at final glimmers of deep red in the western sky, take a deep breath, and try to restrict my perceptions to my own personal space. The rest will intrude soon enough.

Sunday

Low warm morning mist softens the sky behind glowing aged foliage.

Ancient wizened sage

Ignorant on mountain

Claims

Insight and wisdom

In Like A Lamb

Monday

Only the bronze tint of waterside grasses betray an idyllic scene that has appeared changeless since July.

In Huntington, March weather does not match that of Merrie Olde England. But a reversal of the old proverb usually fits October perfectly _ it comes in like a lamb and leaves as a lion.
To start there are cooler days and especially nights, a few chill breezes, earlier evenings. But gardens are still intact, flowers bloom, lawns grow. Once in a while there is need for a light jacket. Greenery remains mostly in place on the trees. Rain is light and storms not too ferocious.
Ah, but in the 31 allotted days, all reverses. Deep cold and frost hit hard. Nights constrict daylight and shortly after Halloween, take over as daylight saving ends. Children running about in shorts as the month begins have to put on heavy sweaters or coats under their costumes. Harbingers of fierce November tempests arrive. Clearing leaves is an ongoing chore. Those who have put off winterization scurry to their tasks.

Tuesday

Goldenrod dominates most scenes, bees are busy gathering nectar even as temperatures drop.

Skies hover blue and fair, with high white clouds. Almost impossible to imagine the coming purple heavy gales, or possible snowflakes, or killing frost. Sunsets have started to be glorious, all red skies and garish painted colors.
I force myself to walk about, savoring each moment as if it may be the last of the year. The last dahlia bloom, the last day without a sweatshirt, the last time barefoot on the grass. Personally the month of October, more than any other, is the time of loss.

Wednesday

Montauk daisies are in full display, some clumps thriving on little more than sand and salt water.

Gather ye rosebuds ….
Or rosehips, which will also soon shrivel and vanish

Thursday

Old green-apple tree beside the ancient farmhouse on Lloyd Inlet.

I’m enjoying about the last of local field tomatoes, and fresh corn is becoming rare. Harvest lingers, but except for vineyards, most crops have picked and stored. This is no change from generations and centuries past, except that we no longer care much. Once October would begin a time of resignation, and possible panic. Were the food-crops plentiful, is a great deal stored away for the privation of winter, are we truly prepared for eight or more months before there is again anything fresh? If a disaster like hail or drought or flood had ruined the plantings, many would go hungry and too many might die.
Now, of course, we like to pretend we can eat locally, but only as a fetish. We are confident food can be stored indefinitely, and brought from anywhere else on the planet, and even grown fresh further south while we shelter snowbound. The terror is gone. Perhaps we fool ourselves _ the supply chains are, after all, quite fragile. But the fact that it is October does not matter at all.

Friday

Weighed down by heavy seeds but not yet battered, grasses float elegantly in water reflecting the clear sky.

Goldenrod has flamed into glory, taking over whole fields and roadsides. For a few weeks, its yellow mist pervades the scenery, then it too shrivels brown with white patches of seed carriers.
As for the rest of the vegetation, brown and brittle is gradually edging out the greens and yellows. There are no young replacements, except in foolishly planted human gardens. When a leaf falls, it is gone. When a stem dries, no shoot springs forth below. For a little while, cultivated roses will continue to grow, bud, and flower, but the long nights are already taking toll on that last growth as well.

Saturday

Asters are another joy of autumn, springing from nowhere into full, furious blossom as temperatures fall.

“Looking sharp, Mr. Shadow!”

“Thank you, thank you, Ms. Sunbeam.”

“How’s your crowds, these days? Doing well, I hope.”

“Could be better, could be. A month ago they couldn’t get enough of me, everyone jamming into shade everywhere. Now they even seem to be avoiding me whenever possible.”

“Fickle.”

“You can say that again, Ms. Sunbeam. No longevity in our business.”

“Well, just talked to Billy Wind. They used to cheer when he showed up in July and August, now he claims they not only complain but sometimes boo and curse.”

“Fickle indeed. Not like the old days.”

“Nope, Mr. Shadow. It was all better back then.”

Sunday

Huntington Fall Festival beginning to fill up on a beautiful hot morning as families forget the cares of the world.

So warm this early October

Not Indian Summer, no cold spell yet

We appreciate sunny skies

At least for today

Worry a little

What it may mean long term

Seeing Red

Monday

Nothing quite brilliant yet, but lovely contrast in its own right on display in the Japanese maple.

This September has been unusually warm and well-watered. There have also been no overly windy storms. Some trees continue full display as if this were md-summer.
Closer examination reveals, however, that the chlorophyll is starting to leach away . Some leaves may gleam more shockingly scarlet than others, some reveal insect damage, and a few have already crisped brown and drifted onto pavement.

Tuesday

A few sheltered roses may bloom until first frost, but for most this is its final flower of the year.

There is plenty of red left over from summer this year. Roses still bloom sporadically, various fragile annuals have not succumbed to deep overnight low temperatures. But internal clocks on even those are setting off alarms to produce seed, and either die of old age or begin the work of hibernation.
Rose cycles remind me of the standard-issue biography of artists. As spring goes by they quickly grow from seemingly dead stalks and by early summer are in full glorious display, covered with huge, marvelously shaped, and often fragrant flowers, with buds the look even more delicious. From these a few few rose hips are produced into midsummer. Although the exuberance is gone, a few blossoms burst forth through early fall, becoming less and less, always unexpected. And then it is over.

Wednesday

It can be the most unnoticed niche which provides great beauty, simply because we usually fail to see it.

Red sun at night, sailor’s delight.
Weather on Long Island does not always arrive with the west wind.

Thursday

Autumnal fogs often arrive bringing a tactile spray of light mist to mysterious luminosity and silence.

In my youth we thought we knew all about biology. We remained almost totally unaware, not even at the point when as, today, we admit our own ignorance. A little beyond the application of some mysterious life force to animate the inanimate, but not much. Trees in fall were one example.
We learned that trees stop making chlorophyll which turns leaves green. That reveals all the pigments that remain so spectacularly in sugar maples. Then the water stops, leaves brown and fall, and another yearly cycle is complete.
Now it turns out to be far more complex. The tree actively reabsorbs a lot of difficult-to-find molecules and stores them. Ecology is enriched and partially controlled by what hits the ground, and becomes self-reinforcing for the parent. Triggers such as light and moisture and cold are still unresolved.
It is a wonderfully intricate dance, which people who just looked and marveled knew a long time ago.

Friday

This ivy is poisonous only to humans, which seems appropriate, and beautiful as it dies back.

Maples are beginning to tune their crowns, and spaced here and there are dashes of a branch or two glittering orange, red, and yellow. Maples are glories in New England autumn. People take long trips to see them, lingering in groves that are naturally as spectacular as any other sights on this continent.
Unfortunately, climate change and pollution have severely cut back the local examples, many of which have died out even in the last thirty years or so. I still have my known specimens to visit, and they mostly still reward, but more and more I see them as hardy survivors, the likes of which will not be seen around here for some time.
A lot like myself.

Saturday

Genetic quirk or microclimate allows a few early red branches to creep into landscapes,

“Little Snowbird, have a good time far away!”

“Shiver as you will, Big Maple!”

“I like the change of seasonal views!”

“I like the warmth and food.”

“I get time to meditate and think.”

“I get to watch flowers, swim, and eat all winter.”

“Well, be careful . Have a wonderful time!”

“You too. See you next spring!”

Sunday

Smartweed has matured everywhere in thick masses, hidden in plain sight under everything else.

Each day so fine, cannot be told

Nor instants counted, saved, nor sold

A construct of time’s flashing blade

Which my own memories have made.

A week, a month, a year, and more

Perhaps once here, now gone for sure.