The Breath of Autumn

I worked in the steamy kitchen, alternating between sink and bubbling canning pots, feeling hot and somewhat agitated; outside it was a glorious autumn day and I was laboring inside. I needed air.

I opened the window and the breath of autumn came in, lusty and clean. I was transported to “the Farm” once again; the only place of refuge and peace in my childhood.

I’m in the forest; it’s been raining. The tiny breeze stirring the stillness; leaves, heavily laden are drip, drip, dripping around me and on me. I don’t care; the sound is at once calming and invigorating. The forest, or “woods” as we called them, is my solace. Nothing else matters; I am safely cocooned in my personal sacred grove. The world is my own.

As I ramble, the air begins to take on a life of its own; fog begins to rise around me; the mist, light and fresh, highlights the rolling hills, bringing into definition the glories of God’s creations. As the fog lifts, so too my spirit; and, finding God in the treetops, I begin to feel His presence.

The smell of damp, decaying vegetation, combined with the earthy, leafy smell of freshly fallen leaves, make a heady scent that for me is as the sweetest rose. Rough bark streaked from the rain is giving off its own woodsy fragrance. The richest lavender fields of France could not be sweeter than my woods.

I wander for hours, never needing the companionship of anyone else, perfectly happy to gad about across the duff. My mind and my heart are free; no place that I need to go; only the need TO go.
A small stream provides me a refreshing drink if needed, and fallen logs ample resting places; yet finding peace of spirit is all I really need.

Wandering as I do, the sounds and scents of nature fill my soul to bursting; there is nothing on earth that matters, no trouble too large to overcome; peace prevails once again.

I’m cooled off now, and back at my task; I thank God for memories that let me relive the comfort and peace that was so badly needed then; I thank Him too, for the Breath of Autumn that whisked me back there, if only temporarily.

The Last Day of Summer

Today is the last day of summer; the last hope for warm, lazy summer afternoons for the next few months.
For now, the nights will get longer; we'll cocoon ourselves with sweaters and wool socks; we'll feed ourselves comfort foods that invoke days gone by, and dearly departed loved ones.
Cooler weather will fill our senses as the days meander onward, into the heart of winter.

As I traverse the days of my autumn existence I take pleasure in the cooler days and the dense morning fog; the hope of Indian summer ever present in my heart and mind.

We’ll put the garden to bed, the tools snug in their places; we’ll fill the woodshed, the spicy scents of pine and cedar pungent and sweet; the harvest is in, or nearly so; the larder filling up with gleaming jars.

The changing of the leaves, like the changing of the guard, creates a striking show; my mind wanders back to other autumns long forgotten, but ever present; a green forest rich with autumn beauty in what seemed a treat just for me. Wood smoke hanging low in the air as I scramble over the spongy ground, the sights and smells of autumn a riotous carnival of color and beauty; the trees dancing in the breeze would sing to me of the dying and rebirth cycle about to begin again; at once, ancient and new.

Scarlet and gold, bronze, crimson and green, vying for my attention and my heart; for this, autumn is my favorite season. Winter has Christmas and the New Year; summer has its pools and parties; spring has new growth and secret gardens. But autumn, autumn shouts its glory for all to witness; the last hurrah before the long winter’s nap.
Combine this with the smell of dry leaves and wet pavement, or wood smoke and spicy cider, or all of the above; I enjoy the season as it awakens every cell within me to the beauty of God’s majesty, and treats my senses to the abundance of His love.

Who can count the joys of autumn?

Happy Autumn!

Autumn is, beyond a doubt, my favorite time of year. Spring is nice, lots of gorgeous flowers popping up in localized gardens all over the country.
Summer, my least favorite season, is just too darn hot, and winter, while nearly perfect in temperature, is peevish like a spoiled child, throwing a tantrum regularly.

But autumn; wow. The colors are not shy like Spring's gardens, they shout from every tree and branch, declaring the end of summer with a Hallelujah to rival the angels in Heaven; the temperatures warm, but not too hot, cool but not cold; the sun, lower on the horizon, casting it's golden light enhancing the trees, aflame with their celebrations.

The bounties of the garden continue, with a second wind found somewhere along the first of September; late summer plantings beginning to bring forth their fruits, now that the dog days of summer are past.
Autumn is time for Leaf Day.

Sadly, we only got to do this one year, but it's a memory that will live with us always.

We lived on five acres in what was then sleepy Delta, Colorado. We lived in an old house that had been built around the turn of the last century. We had trees. Old trees. 14 large, wonderful trees; Cottonwood, Poplar, Apple, Pear. Some of them over 100 years old; big and bossy, protesting as the wind tried to get the better of them more than once.
If you've never been to the Western Slope of Colorado, it's a dry place, water is precious, snow is rare; all this means that autumn is dry and the leaves crackle when you walk on them, crunching merrily as you kick and fling them about. The smell of dry leaves is something to behold, and here in Oregon, greatly missed.

For this, the first and only Leaf Day(we had planned and plotted for other years, but having moved away from our glorious trees, with their equally glorious Autumn leaves, there were to be no more Leaf Days), we invited our friends to share our scheme. Everyone raked and raked, the leaf blower was employed, and soon we had a leaf pile to rival all leaf piles.

We pushed, we pulled, we threw ourselves and each other into that leaf pile, giggling and cackling, howling madly, until we had dried leaves everywhere; even in places that are unmentionable in polite company.
Then we ate; gingerbread, applesauce cake and warm apple cider. We ate and we laughed, and we jumped some more.

On the Western Slope of Colorado, autumn is short, lasting a few brief weeks at the most, swallowed up in the first frosts of winter all too soon.
Here in Oregon, we've had beautiful Autumnal color clear until Thanksgiving, blessing us with colorful leaves and berries for our Holiday table.

Autumn is my favorite season for so many reasons, but the best are the warm memories shared with friends beside the evening fire, picking pumpkins from the field, a bonfire out back, or, Leaf Day; lone but glorious.

Autumn

Yesterday was September sixth; early yet in the month.

I went out to make sure the chickens were buttoned in for the night, and it SMELLED like Autumn; woodsmoke.
Someone, somewhere nearby had a fire going to take away the chill of this rainy, Oregon evening.
It was a glorious smell, not yet mingled with the smell of dry leaves; pure and unadulterated.

When I smell the smell of perfect woodsmoke-and there IS a good and a bad kind of woodsmoke, it just depends on the wood, I am transported back to my childhood, the good part of my childhood.

First, my parents had some friends, the Bredemeyers. We called them "Grandma and Grandpa Bredemeyer"; I had no idea, until I was older that they were not really my grandparents. They had the most amazing antique store inside a barn, and lived in what I recall as a cabin, next door; not big enough for them and our family when we came to visit. They heated each building with a woodstove, and the smell was heavenly.

Second, later, My real grandparents had 40 acres on a hillside not far from a little tiny place called Mountaindale, Oregon. We lovingly referred to these 40 acres as "The Farm".

On the farm, there was an old hunting cabin that my grandfather worked hard to make habitable. It was a mess to begin with; I was a child, yet even I knew it was a mess.
But oh what he did to that cabin. The best part was, that he installed a small wood cookstove. My grandma would do all her canning in that cabin; I got to use it as a sleepover spot for my girlfriends and I--I think this started after the night I had a friend sleepover, and we left the radio running all night; did I mention we lived in a 1970's era double wide with very thin walls?

Nevertheless, this sleepover haven was at it's best when we were out there in the winter, with a fire in the cookstove to keep us warm and toasty.

If you've never heated with wood, you don't know what you are missing. The heat is dry and cozy, solid in it's properties, like another being in the room with you. So unlike it's blustery cousin the forced air furnace, whose presence is just that, forced upon you; with all it's comings and goings, there is never real peace in the house.

No, a wood stove-my preferred method of wood heat, is like a reliable friend, steady and sure; making comfortable inroads into your psyche.

Autumn is my favorite time of year; leaves, scarlet and gold, green and orange make a feast for my eyes. The woodsmoke? A feast for my heart.