Tints are in the grasses and color is in our trees as late summer
strolls along.
This is the transitional time. Summer mixes with fall. Hot sun is tempered by cooler nights and perhaps a few crisp notes of
Canada air. Nuances of change are everywhere.
It’s irrevocably past the late sunsets of six weeks ago. We can’t be tricked
into thinking summer is holding on. All the same, it’s too early for the nostalgia
that September can lay down with its gold and lavender notes and soft hazy
evenings.
At our curb the roses contemplate a second wave of bloom. In late June
they were exuberantly pink. They were in full shrubby bloom.
Heat which came like
a blast furnace in July, or their own delicate timing, ended the flowering. It makes this
unexpected crop a daily delight.
The roses are companioned by Japanese silvergrass, whose recent growth
spurt puts the fronds well above the mailbox in a masterpiece of feathery
height.
The untidy but always perky black-eye susans round out the plantings. They've mostly done their own styling for curb appeal after our initial
support.
The thistles and nettles that wanted to take hold among the plantings met
their match and are gone. They were eradicated one by one with each trip to the
mailbox. It made the walk worthwhile no matter the yield from the mailbox.
Squirrels scurrying across our lawns might as well be pushing wheelbarrows. We’re
staggered by the weight in acorns they carry off to hiding places.
The theory is that squirrels collect copiously preceding a winter with teeth
to it. Based on our observations investing in a down parka or purchases of
knee-high snowboots may not be a bad idea.
Maybe the squirrels are displaying a make-hay-while-the-sun-shines
philosophy. The bounty of acorns it appears to be this year could turn the most commonsensical
squirrel hyperactive.
They're seized with the belief they must gather all the acorns in. Never mind
that by the time the acorns are needed for winter food they’re exquisitely
buried and never to be found.
Watching the gray squirrels work almost feverishly it’ll be interesting
what January brings.
These are the weeks to fit in a
summer drive or short getaway before such activities wind up on the fall list.
We had our short session away not too long ago. We relaxed in the country which
basked in the peace of late summer and its proximity to harvest.
The morning star was very bright
over the tallest pine in the yard where we were. Early sun skimmed the fields.
Late summer fog rolled up from the lake to blanket the shoreline road.
Gazing upon the fog bank from our
somewhat higher location the scene seemed vaguely familiar. I realized why. It
reminded me of numerous air trips.
Flying through clouds the
plane climbs above them into brilliant sunshine. You blink into its blinding
dazzle reassured it has been there all the time.
Above the gray dome of fog on
the ground the air was crystal clear, which any driver would soon discover getting
through to the other side of it.
The morning was so still that the
blur of a rabbit moving like ninety was bound to catch the eye. It was going so
fast I figured, with some concern, that it was at the tag end of a not so very
hilarious game of pursuit.
I watched for a predator to come
charging after. Distance prevented me from doing anything heroic towards saving
the bunny should it come to that.
It felt like some role was
necessary to take. Being the eyewitness account was the best that occurred
to me.
Nothing came along. The bunny sprang
deeply into green cover. My conclusion was there'd been no chase. It was simply an agile cottontail enjoying the free and fresh early air.
Being away from routine, for a
short break or a more definite amount of time, is beneficial. For many of us it’s
the reason for summer.
Summer is not just for the
obvious things like crops to grow and the rain to fall and children to grow in
the months away from school.Come to think of it, school vacation
is immensely routine-busting as perhaps it was meant to be.
Vacations of any kind, including “down
time” of any length, give opportunities for exposure to other kinds of learning
and experiences.
They offer chances for
unstructured hours where creativity hides out sometimes under the names of
boredom and too much time on my hands.
One learns there are places that
foster observations and insights. Being away from usual work spots or study
spots can be among the best places to hone skills of paying attention – to
the world around and to what’s inside.
Each place is different for every
one of us. We have our own spots. We know them by the degree of detail we take
in or by the plans or new ideas that come with being there.
It's neat to have these places
wherever we are. Some of us find these places within a season. It
triggers within us reactions clearer than other times of the year.
Each season, as with each place
we make our own, can release some idea or perspective perhaps not met with
before.
We were literally climbing into bed when it
happened. We watched and couldn’t believe it.
The big hackberry tree in our backyard snapped in two. We didn't notice any precipitating factor that could have alerted us to its imminent demise.
The
portion of the trunk that sheared off as we watched looked like a green iceberg sliding into
the sea.
The sea in this case was our yard and rooftop. We looked on in awe with no time even to be fearful.
The tree fell in slow motion yet quickly. Amazement dulled what should have been instinctive
reaction to move away pronto. Frozen in place we waited for the inevitable thud.
The
tinkling noises of glass disturbed in the window panes got the adrenaline flowing.
I was sure the sounds of breaking glass would be next. I was in the hallway by that time and that was
all that mattered.
In
the quiet afterward we checked things out. We counted ourselves extremely fortunate. Boughs on the roof and over the deck had made an unbelievably graceful landing.
It
was a perfect drop (not that a tree falling on one’s house can ever be described
quite in those terms). One lucky thing registered immediately. No glass anywhere was
broken.
Rain
(for it had begun to rain) wasn’t pouring in or seeping through the roof. That
was good enough for me. I went to sleep.
In
the light of day we reassessed the damage. Branches rested up against
the upper windows in bushy disarray. They required nothing
but to be cleared away. Some roof shingles are messed up. This is minor damage
Al thinks.
The
deck took the brunt of the fall. It was filled with branches and leaves. Incredibly
it sustained no damage.
The
tree couldn't have lined up its fall better if programmed by a computer. Considering
the welter of boughs and branches poking and projecting every which way the end
result was a sense of tidiness.
The
tree managed to miss eaves and gutters, rainspouts and deck lighting. It didn't puncture window screens.
All
those branches didn't scratch the deck rails or overturn one piece of deck
furniture.
The deck (newly stained just last week) has a fifteen-inch gouge mark in the center of the floor boards. This can be sanded and restained. A trifle in touch-up when you consider costs with major deck damage.
The
large limb spanning the deck created a pergola effect. The greenery was
draped as if for an outdoor social event. It made the deck on this sticky
August morning seem like a cool green tent.
Someone
came over to cut up the tree (goodbye $700.00!) and haul away the debris. The backyard was left with
an airier canopy and glimpses of open sky not seen before.
The
tree with its encompassing umbrella of shade might be missed next summer. Regret
is mixed with great thankfulness.
We're
glad the part of the tree rotten at the core could come down relatively
gracefully. It shed its thicket of green leaves upon us without doing
a nasty number on the house which could easily have happened.
Surveying
the mess this morning gave me my first smile. It was at sight of the blanket of leaves on the deck.
Last
evening I was about to sweep the deck. Recalling that the forecast was for possible
late-evening storms I figured rain or wind would bring down more leaves, rendering futile any
sweeping done.
A
clean deck can wait until tomorrow was the decision. I went off to find
my big fat fall fashion magazine.
I
sat with it out on the deck, mentally previewing my autumn/ winter wardrobe
under the pleasant shade of the stand of trees which includes the hackberry.
I
saved myself some work was the thought that produced this morning's smile. I’d have swept the deck
yesterday only to have to do it all over again.
Then
a new thought came. I may have saved myself a bit of work but the tree may actually have saved me.
The hackberry tree held
off on its fall until the deck was empty and we were safely inside for the night.
Beautiful
cherries are in the stores. The trip through the produce section is never
better, nor a more visual feast, than now.
With
nutrition and health a guiding factor in our shopping list it makes eminent sense
to add the deep red fruit, heaped so prettily in proud display, to the food items
that will make up our munching and meals in the week ahead.
Cherries
comprise what I think of as the Big Four of the summer crops. Along with corn
on the cob, blueberries and tomatoes my esteemed cherries, as they seasonally
appear, define the best of summer.
With
the Olympics just over in London, and its glorious show of competitor spirit
and awesome athletic skill endowing August 2012 with special flair, I may even score
cherries as the gold medalist among the summer delights. Cherries are simply
the taste of summer to many of us.
I
like cherries so well that as a girl I settled on Cherry Nut Cake as my
birthday cake. I wanted my cake iced with no ordinary frosting. It had to
be penuche frosting. If it was going to be my day I knew this was my best time
for asking for the things dearest to my heart.
Cherries,
nuts and penuche as a birthday dessert was triple-tier indulgence.
It was like finding a quarter by only looking down and seeing it, so lucky did my
party cake make me feel.
The
cake maintains its hold on me. It’s wonderful to have a few constants in life. A
cake filled with cherries and nuts and frosted liberally with penuche icing
puts a smile on me and I’m not counting on that changing.
A
copy of Betty Crocker’s Cook Book for Boys and Girls, and surely some Nancy Drew
detective stories, are the only birthday gifts recalled from childhood. While
Christmas gifts did a better job of staying in mind the ones given at birthdays had a more fleeting
touch.
What’s
remembered instead is the fun of the birthday party with your friends invited,
the excitement all around and the supreme moment the cake and ice cream is
served and you’re the one who bends in to blow out the lighted candles.
My
mom’s love stirred into pink cake batter studded with maraschino cherries and
chopped walnuts, and further demonstrated in the floral decorations on my Cherry
Nut Cake, is the one birthday gift I’ll never forget or outgrow.
Cherry
Nut Cake
Beat
4 egg whites until frothy. Gradually add ½ cup granulated sugar. Beat until
peaks form; set aside.
Cream
½ cup shortening and ½ cup granulated sugar. Add 2½ cups cake flour* and ½
teaspoon salt alternately with 2/3 cup milk. Add 1/3 cup finely chopped
maraschino cherries and ½ cup chopped nuts.
Fold
in meringue. Pour into two 9” lined cake pans.Bake in 375 degree oven 25-30 minutes. Cool and frost.
Penuche
frosting: Melt ½ cup butter in saucepan. Add 1 cup brown sugar. Boil over low
heat for 2 minutes, stirring constantly. Stir in ¼ cup milk. Bring to a boil
stirring constantly. Cool to lukewarm. Gradually add 2- 2½ cups powdered sugar
and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Beat until right consistency to spread.
*
to substitute all-purpose flour: 1 cup minus 2 tablespoons flour for each 1 cup
of cake flour the recipe calls for
August
is like glancing at your watch and realizing it’s later than you think.
It
makes it important to get in the remaining summer highlights before the calendar
runs out.
Fishing
is Al’s intent as he pictures lazy August mornings ahead. My interest is for
the other end of the day.
My
pleasure is getting maximum usage out of the summer evening light. It shrinks
with each new sunset and fills our rooms with an earlier dusk.
It
makes me wonder how the approach of fall was awaited on long ago farms and
homesteads.
Perhaps
the rural community didn’t look past harvest, the make or break time of the year with its long hours of bringing in the crops.
But certainly, with the wheat threshed, the corn siloed and the hay
bales hoisted to the barn loft, the next phase of winter preparation took hold.
At
night there may have been lights to see across the
fields. These steady beacons connected through the quiet starlight.
The farm lights, standing out above plowed acreage and neat belts of planted windbreaks, told the scattered farms they weren't alone.
Through the winter the farms mostly depended on their own households for company. This often was a mixed group.
It could comprise of family, parents who came to
live out their years with them, hired help when it was necessary or could be afforded, or relations on a visit, or waiting out a tough
spell when cities could offer no jobs.
Those
on hand amounted to your human contact, your support. Everyone else was more or less on the
periphery as days shortened and life drew in.
After
chores were done, and the cool night air began to descend, there were
socks to mend by such light as there was, or a bit of harness to repair, or time for storytelling or accounts to balance at the kitchen table.
The
children played their own games in a warm corner. The cats – actual house
kitties and not the half-wild barn cats who kept the mice population down –
curled in balls of comfort completing the scene.
I’m
reminded specifically of an old country neighbor. What thoughts were his as August
days sloped toward fall?
He
was our neighbor in a geographical sense. His farm wasn’t far away. He was a bachelor.
I don't think he was a recluse but he was very retiring, almost surely shy. I don't recall every meeting him. Knowledge of him came from what was said of him.
My
mother knew him and his family, all of whom were older than she. They were a
Norwegian family who came in the early 20th century. It was long after the main thrust of immigration to
our parts.
That first big group settled our area as pioneers of a land just
opening up. This
family arrived to find their fellow Norwegians well assimilated into American society.
The Norwegian language had been shed, at least in public, and by the children
altogether. Born in Minnesota they tended toward American ways. I wonder what the brave little group braced for as they realized the wide gulf in their experience from that of the others.
The
family bought land and this was something they shared with the others. They knew how to work hard and tend well their farm animals and their acreage.
They
likely attended the little country Norwegian Lutheran church near their farm.
They’d have been faithful Sunday congregants.
The
strength of the old Norwegian hymns, still sung at church in their native language,
would have supplied courage from one week to the next.
There
were trips to the country store, hardly a mile away, and perhaps to the cheese
factory. They had a small herd of cows which gave them milk they could sell. Cows meant you were pretty much tied to the
farm. The black and white Holsteins had their price.
The
family consisted of the parents and a son and daughter. The children were
possibly ten or twelve when the family moved from Norway to the United States.
In
time the parents died. The son and daughter didn't marry. They stayed on at the
home. They farmed and were presumably each other’s friend and companionship.
Then
the sister passed away. Carl, as he’ll be called here, continued alone. Big-hearted
neighbors of his (the two farms joined) tucked him under their wings like
family.
Carl
wasn’t social. The couple respected this. But he was foremost a neighbor and
this meant checking on him and including him.
They
brought him soup and meals. Sometimes meals were fish which the farmwife caught.
She was an avid ice fisherman. She had holes on the lake ice out of which many
a winter meal took shape.
Perhaps
she took over molasses cookies (cookie jars were always full) or buttermilk
pie. Norwegians love their dairy in a hundred different renditions.
There
were times they’d sit to coffee together. Coffee was an important part of the
ritual of rural neighboring. I’m sure Carl visited their farm somewhat easily. They helped each other at harvest and with chores.
We
knew very little, just snippets of what we heard. We did hear that Carl drank
his coffee differently. We thought it sounded very Norwegian. We put it like
that because we didn’t know how else to categorize it.
He
poured his coffee, a little at a time, from cup into saucer. The saucer was a small
circular plate that held the cup.
The
coffee was allowed to cool before he sipped it from the saucer. We kids didn’t
think it so much odd as unique. It was a whiff of old patterns
our generation found more amusing than anything else.
Coffee
served in a farm kitchen came with something ample. Whatever was newly baked
would come out now. Or it might possibly be donuts, punched out of yeasty dough
and deep-fried at the counter hours ago with the smell of the cooking fat still
in the house.
The
table might have homemade bread and preserves or fruit sauce, opened from a
Mason jar sealed the summer before from high bush cranberries or apples or plums.
It was a sufficient feast to tide Carl over if he decided not to fix
anything for dinner later at home.
Carl’s
farm was in a pretty bend of the river. The house was enfolded in hills. It
wasn’t seen from the road as I recall. There was a red barn you could glimpse
except we seldom went that way.
As
kids Carl scarcely entered our thoughts. He was rarely mentioned and never
seen.
We
did think his was a set-apart existence. We could imagine the strangeness of
coming as youngsters to a place you never quite latched onto.
We
were glad for the kindness shown to him by his nearest neighbors, and no doubt
there were many others too who looked out after him.
Our
children were babies when I learned there’d been an auction at his farm. Carl went as quietly as his years had been spent. It was left to the family items to tell his story.
Friends
attended the auction. There were scores of items they said, stopping to visit
afterwards.
Among
the calls for bids were linens (probably beautifully
embroidered), furniture, which included iron beds, three old violins, egg crates and cheese boxes. Typical of a farm sale there were also many tools.
It
was the three old violins that got me. I could hear the music. It came to me this
is how the long nights of fall and winter were spent. Music chases away
loneliness. It instills hope. It unites, soothes and soars.
I
wondered who in the family had been the violin players. Three violins among
four people could indicate one violin was shared.
Maybe
the fourth person was the listener – the audience, the appreciator. Or perhaps
the fourth person provided vocal accompaniment.
I
can believe this family group sang of their homeland. They came to terms with
the new in the healing music of the old.
Summer,
which is outward in its energy, changes to fall’s more concentrated air. This family
played from their hearts and hopes as the door closed out the cold and
darkness of night.
Any
sadness, too, I like to think, was kept on that other side as the strains of
the violins had their piece.
Last
night a tree fell on our home. 
