Wherever you’re reading this from, I hope you're enjoying the geographically appropriate equivalent of frosty mornings, brilliant red-orange-gold trees, long walks through crunchy leaves, and the smell of woodsmoke in the air. I’m pretty sure peak color has arrived here at the “tip of the mitt,” and I’m also pretty sure that it’s an extra-good season for color. (Even residents who haven’t been away for four years agree.) Outside my window, leaves are dropping steadily – a scene that confirms the appropriateness of the name fall.
Mom and I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous day (70 degrees!) and go adventuring. We loaded Maisie and a picnic into the car this morning, headed for Burt Lake to pull some weeds and pile leaves on the garden, and then followed Robinson Road west to Good Hart with lovely red maples the whole way. At Middle Village, we ate bread and cheese on a bench overlooking Lake Michigan and watched a little girl and her dad hard at work on a sand castle. Then we explored the trails at Good Hart Farms, drove south through the Tunnel of Trees, and stopped by Pond Hill Farm, which was awash in colorful squash. Continuing my pantry-stocking project, I loaded a bushel basket full of acorns, butternuts, delicatas, spaghettis, carnivals, and a few other unknown beauties, then topped it off with a bag full of shiny Jonamac apples. With luck, both squash and apples will last well into the winter months.
Which leads me to contemplate that unlike fall (and spring), winter is a word that only works as a noun. It seems fitting, since winter is a season of stillness and quiet rather than motion. (I am, however, hoping for plenty of snowflakes drifting past my windows just as the leaves are now.)
No comments:
Post a Comment