Once again, it’s December. Too soon, as always. Although the pre-Christmas busy-ness has been no more extreme than usual, the details have kept my mind too crowded to devote time to writing. Or to much thought, in general, for that matter. It’s hard not to let the post-Thanksgiving lead-up to December 25 become an endurance game of checking off never-ending lists. Lights replaced on the playroom tree? Yes. Whew. Cross that out. One small victory. On to the next task, with many more to follow.
Last year I wrote about the fine line between reveling in the spirit of Christmas and veering off the deep end into holiday excess. (See here.) It’s an issue I guess I’ll grapple with until I’m physically unable to haul out the decorations. But that might not stop me. Will I be directing my daughter, or some kindly, younger neighbor? I hope not. But then again, no one else could do it to please me.
Anyway, the wreaths are up on our house and on the old maple stump out front by the road. The stump survived another year. This summer it played host to a thicket of tall green foliage.
As long as any part of the decaying tree remains, we’ll decorate it in December. For me, it’s a reminder of the true spirit of Christmas: because a baby was born many years ago in Bethlehem, out of death comes new life. That is the best antidote to holiday excess I can imagine.
For my first post on this subject, see Deck the Tree Stump, posted almost exactly two years ago.
To all those serving our country now and in the past, at home and far away, during peacetime and war, we thank you. As for those of us who haven’t walked in your boots, may we never take your bravery, your selflessness and your sacrifice for granted. Let’s honor our veterans this day and every day.
It’s that time of year again. As Halloween nears, our friend Slim, who engages in quiet meditation in the spare bedroom eleven months out of the year, comes out to play. His loyal pooches Fluffy and Champ are by his side and ready to frolic.
With Slim out and about, our family is blessed with another errand runner. And designated driver. We need more Halloween candy, Slim insists, so he’s off to the store. Kiko, ever the happy passenger, prepares to ride along.
Kiko reminds Champ to buckle up.
Be a good boy, Kiko, for Uncle Slim!
Here’s what Slim says: It’s the night before Halloween. Be ready for fun!
For last year’s photos of the Skeleton Crew, see here.
Today, we’re back to sunshine. Yesterday’s continuous rain failed to wash away fall’s colors; it simply spread them around with an artistic flair. The weather is mild. It’s a perfect day to be outside, enjoying October.
It’s a day that makes me a bit nostalgic for my daughter’s younger years. If she were seven or eight, we might be heading to Cox Farms after school. This family-owned farm puts on a fall festival that really is fun for most ages. It’s one of our favorite local traditions. We discovered it with a group of friends we met through D’s preschool.
If you live in a suburban or semi-rural area, you probably have a place like this nearby. In Princeton, there was Terhune Orchards, which my husband and I enjoyed. If something similar existed in Atlanta when I was growing up in the 70s, we didn’t know about it. Lucky for me, I didn’t know what I was missing. Lucky for my daughter, she didn’t have to miss it.
Cox Farms is a low-tech, homespun, rough-around-the-edges place, just as a farm should be. As a preschooler, one of my daughter’s favorite “rides” involved rolling down a hill inside a big pipe. There are mischievous goats to feed, various baby farm animals to admire, a cow to milk, and lots of hand-painted folk-artsy plywood signs. Naturally, there are pumpkins, apples, cider and kettle corn. On weekends there might be a bluegrass band.
There’s lots of hay: hay mountains to climb, hay bale forts to explore and tunnel through. Of course there’s a hayride, during which aliens and assorted odd but non-threatening creatures appear. There are many slides, some of which are quite steep. When we first started going to Cox Farms, D was afraid to attempt any of the slides on her own, so we went down them together. That’s when I found out how much fun a fun slide can be. Apparently, I was slide-deprived (as well as fall-festival deprived) as a child.
Our daughter’s first-choice activity was the rope swing with a drop into a foam pit. One doesn’t often get a chance to brag on a child’s rope swing skills, but I must say she had excellent form and always managed to sail to a far corner of the pit. The two photos above are from consecutive years, the first in 2006, the second in 2007. Evidently D’s fall festival uniform consisted of a pink shirt and blue jeans.
In 2007, D added her Brownie vest to the uniform. She enjoys recalling those fashion-forward days.
For several years when our daughter was in elementary school, we had an annual fall festival meet-up with former preschool friends, a brother and sister, and their dad. It was one of the highlights of the season.
Our every visit to Cox Farms ended with the careful picking of a “free” patch pumpkin. D has always delighted in the perfect pumpkin.
It’s been several years since we’ve done the fall festival. But our daughter is now a regular attendee at “Fields of Fear,” held at Cox Farms on weekend nights for older kids and adults. It includes the Cornightmare, the Dark Side Hayride and the Forest: Back 40. As of this year, she and her friends can even drive themselves.
But at the end of the night, D still picks out a little patch pumpkin.
Today is the day for that steady, late fall rain that washes much of the brilliant color from the trees. In tomorrow’s sunshine, many branches will be newly bare. Gutters and lawns, though, will gleam red, orange and gold. One of the brightest patches in our area will be beneath this magnificent tree.
Located behind our church, it’s adorned with some of the most vividly red leaves imaginable. I’d always assumed it was a maple. When someone referred to it as an oak, I knew that wasn’t right. But in September, when Kiko and I were sitting in its shade for the Blessing of the Animals, I realized I was wrong, too. This was no maple. The leaves, still green then, were the wrong shape. And there were berries. Bluish-purple berries, like elongated blueberries.
What was this tree? No one seemed to know. But mention “that red tree by the church” and everyone knew exactly which one you meant. I began an internet search. Googling “trees with blue berries” didn’t provide a quick answer.
Then I remembered my little tree book, which I’d recently brought from Atlanta. As I mentioned in a previous tree post, a neighbor gave me the book when I was a child. She encouraged me to look closely and appreciate nature as we saw it all around us. She was Eugenia Brown, a Southern lady with a Southern name, a proud graduate of Decatur’s Agnes Scott College some decades before. (Daddy thought she was too old to be talking so much about her Agnes Scott days.) Mrs. Brown was a wise woman, and I’ve only recently begun to realize the impression she made on me. She wasn’t particularly religious, but I can see now that when we examined leaves, acorns, pine cones, shells and flowers, she encouraged my sense of wonder for that vast and easily overlooked array of amazing little things God made. His little creations–those unique, tiny masterpieces of design–they have always brought me joy. For that gift, I thank Mrs. Brown.
I found the book, and sure enough, I discovered the tree almost immediately, recognizing it from the handy close-up painting of its red leaves and berries. It’s a Black Gum tree. Also known as Black Tupelo, Sourgum or Pepperidge. According to the concise text, “Black Gum leaves are smooth and shiny, turning brilliant red in fall. The dark blue fruit is eaten by birds and small mammals.” Bingo.
Yet again, thank you, Mrs. Brown. And thank you, God. Had I not known Mrs. Brown, had she not given me the tree book, I might not be able to find such solace in the beauty of little things and the God who made them. How wonderful it is that our God designed bright red canopies with plump blue berries to shelter and sustain His littlest winged and furry creatures! To paraphrase that old hymn, His eye is on the berry, and I know he watches me.
Early last week it appeared likely that the great beauty of the season had passed. I hadn’t been looking, and I’d missed it.
But my pessimism was unwarranted. Just look!
I understand how Ebenezer Scrooge must have felt, awakening after his ghostly visitations, to realize with elation that he hadn’t slept through Christmas. Scrooge hadn’t missed that momentous, holy day, and I haven’t missed this spectacular season. The sudden, gloomy cold snap didn’t last. Fall is still here, at least for a few more days. And recently, it’s been as brilliant and colorful as it should be.
I don’t have to drive to the mountains or down to the Valley to appreciate the show. Fall is playing just outside my windows. The view down the street, with the trees arching overhead, can hold its own next to any grand sight.
You probably have equally glorious views close to home, too.
Don’t forget to look.
The show is on now, but it’s a limited engagement!
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
