I love nature’s seasonal costume changes. How appropriate it seems that fall, the prelude to sensible, somber-toned winter, is given the year’s showiest, most brilliant colors. I think of fall as nature’s show-stopper, the big number, the tune you’ll be whistling long after the leaves have fallen, when the air is resolutely chilly and darkness comes too early.
The leaves of this towering catalpa tree glow green-gold over our town’s reconstructed one-room schoolhouse.
The maples, of course, claim some of the brightest and most varied colors in the paint box.
This tall black walnut tree is quick to let go of its golden leaves and turn its face toward winter.
Squirrel treats: black walnuts, almost the size of tennis balls, drop heavily from the trees in our yard every fall. I gathered these so I could watch the squirrels remove them.
Pumpkins at the ready at our local farm market.
My daughter looks forward to our annual pumpkin picking. She loves fall as much, or maybe even more, than I do.
Harmony in pink and green: In October, the rosy brick on our fence finds a coordinate in the leaves of our neighbor’s dogwood trees.
Yesterday, my daughter called my attention to an elaborate lichen formation on one of the decaying tree stumps in our front yard. Although I walk past it nearly every day with Kiko, I hadn’t noticed it. Amazing, the strange beauty we can so easily overlook. Our lawn repeatedly offers such spectacles. Yet I still forget. Oblivious, I walk right by.
I’ve written about the attachment our family feels toward our old trees. (See The Silver Maples Say Welcome Home, April 2012, and Barred Owl Update, June 2013.) The two immense maples that survive from the original six, planted the year our house was built, are ninety-three years old. Broad stumps serve as place markers, memorials for the trees that had to be removed. The life, so strikingly peculiar, that emerges from these dead stumps is further justification for our not having them ground down.
Lichen is one of earth’s oldest life forms. Very slowly, but with exceptional persistence, it emerges in unlikely, inhospitable spots, nearly impervious to extreme conditions and temperatures. In the crowded busyness of our twenty-first century world, it keeps a low profile and may go unnoticed. Lichen is not a single organism, but a complex partnership between fungi and algae. Lichen may grow from bare rock or wood. As it grows, it breaks down the substance from which it emerges, helping to create soil.
The lichen on our tree stump is a cascade of flower-like growths. Depending on your point of view, it resembles part of an exuberantly ruffled blouse, rippling water flowing over rocks, the feathered plumage of a giant bird, the petals of cabbage roses deconstructed and rearranged, or even the scales of a fantastic crocodilian creature.
I’m so glad we let nature take its course. Had we not said “no,” over and over, to unbeatable stump grinding prices (offered eagerly by every tree company that drives past the house), we would have no stage for this riot of oddly lovely new life. How satisfying, how hope-inspiring, it is that from the last vestiges of this maple tree springs an ancient vitality. Decay and growth, hand in hand, rather like the lichen partnership itself. The circle of life, circling on and on, underfoot. While the tree stump remains, we’ll be observers at the quietly fabulous end-time celebration it’s hosting.
When the sun reappeared yesterday, I felt like a kid in school welcoming back a close friend who’d been out sick for a week. Judging from the number of walkers and runners (with and without dogs) in our neighborhood, I wasn’t alone. Today, after a foggy start, the sun is shining on us again, painting lawns and trees with golden highlights. In this slow-moving fall season, a few touches of color are beginning to be revealed.
The brightest dash of fall color in our yard is offered by the leaves of a sassafras tree, shown here against the trunk of one of our big silver maples.
The yellow leaves and prolific seed pods of this old redbud tree testify to fall’s approach.
A sweet-smelling river of pine straw flows past our house every October.
This time of year, Kiko is outside as often as possible, camoflaged in pine straw the color of his fur, perhaps hoping to trick a squirrel.
One of the best things about a very early morning dog walk is the chance to catch the moon before it goes to bed. Today Kiko and I walked under the glow of the bright Harvest Moon. This first full moon of the fall makes it official: the new season is underway.
Every year, on the day before we leave for the Cape, my husband painstakingly packs the car with his vast array of windsurfing gear. To the untrained eye, it’s a bewildering hodgepodge, but it all makes sense to him. When I asked him to describe what’s included, he was more than happy to oblige. He rarely has the chance to talk about his beloved sport, as there are few fellow windsurfers in our area (due primarily to a lack of water and wind). Ideal conditions are rare at the Potomac or the Chesapeake (at least on weekends when H can get there). This is one reason we go to Cape Cod each year. And it’s because of the Cape that H discovered windsurfing. As a teenager, he got hooked when he took a lesson on Gull Pond in Wellfleet. According to H, here’s what he packs for the trip: four sails (ranging in size from three to seven and a half square meters), one board (he has two, but he only brings one), three masts, two mast extension tubes, two booms, four fins in a range of types and sizes (including a new weed fin called the “Reaper,”) a wind meter, life jacket, harness, three wet suits, protective booties in two different thicknesses, a waterproof watch, a repair kit consisting of epoxy, sail tape and a “ding stick,” sunglass floaties, piles of velcro straps, ropes and “lashing straps,” and finally, two universal joints. The board is strapped to the roof rack, but everything else must be inside the car. This is unfortunate for our daughter, who, during the long drive, is wedged into a tight pocket. If she has a growth spurt we’ll have to get a bigger car.
Optimal wind is not a given even at the Cape. There are years when the equipment sits virtually unused, a sad, sandy mound in the corner of the living room of our cottage, a painful reminder to H of what he’s missing. When this is the case, he spends lots of time standing at the edge of the bay, staring dejectedly at the wind meter. People relaxing on the beach may comment knowingly, “Too much wind, huh?” This has never been the case, and H gets a little exasperated at the non-windsurfing public’s lack of wind know-how. It is one super-frosty day in hell when there’s too much wind for the windsurfer. Typically, if conditions are comfortable for lounging on the beach, the wind is utterly inadequate for H’s purposes. It’s when the beach umbrellas begin to take flight that his mood begins to lift, as well. Perfect wind for windsurfing often occurs only under perfectly miserable conditions. When the sand whips your legs with the sting of a million needles, the spray from each violently crashing wave drenches you and your canvas chair, the sky is low and threatening, the temperature has dropped to wintry, and beach-goers seek shelter in their cottages, that’s when H will be merrily heading out, into the midst of the water and wind.
H, catching some air, is joined by a kite boarder, on what appears to be a silvery sea of mercury.
It takes several trips to lug the many required pieces of equipment down to the water’s edge. Sometimes D or I help; more often, we simply stand inside the cottage in mute witness, amazed at his fortitude, marveling that such terrible weather cheers him so. Once the craft is assembled, he tugs it through the thick seaweed that floats in the shallows of the bay. At last, he’s off, and for a few seconds, D and I can see him speeding away, toward the curve of Provincetown. Very quickly, he disappears into the gray mist of sea and sky.
We check on him periodically, because he’s always out far longer than anyone on shore deems possible or advisable. D and I bundle up in hoodies and rainwear and trudge down to the water, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the sail. After a while we see a speck in the distance: it’s H heading toward shore. We assume he’s had enough; surely he’s coming in, exhausted and frozen. But no. He’s just turning around. He gives us the thumbs up and lets the wind pull him up and out of the water again. (Skilled windsurfers needn’t struggle to pull up the sail, as novices do.) D and I retreat to the cottage and consider playing a card game or huddling under beach towels.
During times like this, I can’t help but wish my husband had a different hobby. Why can’t he be a history buff or model train collector? Why can’t he build those cute little scale models of classic cars? I used to encourage him to take up carpentry. I could see him busy in a cozy basement woodworking studio, turning out copies of furniture based on pictures I ripped out of Antiques Magazine. Why does he have to have a hobby that requires the unique confluence of so many elusive factors?
It could be worse, of course. He could spend every spare moment on the golf course. He could be a die-hard college football fan. He could insist that we travel to all the games in an RV, like the alumni that turn Athens, GA into an ocean of red and black polyester on Saturdays. Or he could be a Revolutionary War reenactor. Worse still, he could want me there beside him, his loyal colonial partner in a corset and thick wool dress, roasting a sheep over an open fire in the middle of August. I have nothing against those who pursue such pasttimes. Indeed, I have friends who do. I’m just glad I’m not married to any of them (and I’m sure they echo the sentiment). OK, maybe windsurfing isn’t so bad.
This year at the Cape, H got the best wind we can remember, and I didn’t wish he had a different hobby. The wind was exceedingly cooperative, almost thoughtful. It didn’t insist on being accompanied by freezing cold and driving rain. It was timely; it wasn’t at its peak during the evening when we planned to go into Provincetown for dinner. The wind often blew most briskly shortly after dawn. These windsurfing sessions were the ones that D and I found particularly pleasant, since we were able to sleep through them. But in the late afternoons, as sunset approached, I watched in comfort as H appeared to skim effortlessly across the water. Sometimes, he even soared above it, just for a moment. I think he’d say this: that moment, that perfect, thrilling moment. . .that’s what it’s all about.
For the first time ever, the windsurfer in H was almost satisfied when we left the Cape. Almost. In the words of the Meat Loaf song, Stark Raving Love, when it comes to windsurfing, for H, “Too much is never enough.”
When we turn off Route 6 onto Route 6A, Shore Road in Truro, we’re five hundred miles and twelve hours’ driving time from our house in Virginia. But we feel like we’re coming home. And we are, in a way. We’re here every year. We like to think that we’re more than tourists, who are just passing through, perhaps never to return. We will be back; we’re a sure thing. We’ve been coming here so long that we can’t imagine not going back.
Each summer’s inaugural drive down Shore Road finds the three of us exultant. Our time at the Cape is something we agree on completely; we all hold it equally dear, for our own reasons. The trials and traffic of the long trip are behind us. We eagerly scan the familiar land- and seascape along the mile and a half that leads to our little cottage complex. It’s rare that we are greeted by any major changes, and for this we are grateful.
The water, the sand, and the light are in constant daily flux, yet from year to year, this sliver of the Outer Cape appears virtually the same. The manmade trappings along Shore Road are modest; they make no effort to compete with nature’s spectacular beauty. There are bungalows, saltboxes, and of course, Cape Cods, but no high rises, no glitz. There are groupings of rental cottages. Most are small; some are unbelievably tiny. All are picturesque.
Those lucky enough to get a toe-hold along this enchanted strip of land don’t easily let it go. Homes are passed from one generation to the next. The same weathered, typically hand-painted signs in front yards have greeted us for decades: Beach Rose, The Little Skipper, The Sea Gull, Pilgrim Colony. Occasionally a cottage is resided, reshingled or otherwise refurbished. Some grow more charmingly dilapated every year. Once in a very long while a new building appears. Mostly, though, all remains reassuringly the same, and seems to promise always to be so.
Lush, vibrantly colored flowers adorn the minuscule front yards of many Shore Road cottages.
A rusty owl keeps wide-eyed watch in front of one home.
This weathered, shingled cottage, with its Pineys sign, has been here as long as I can remember.
Hydrangeas, in great profusion, flourish along the fencerows.
The vacant motel, languishing in a perpetual sense of comfortable decay.
A vigilant seagull caretaker. After seeing The Birds this summer, I will keep my distance.
Simple bayside cottages, brilliant blue sky, luxuriant green grass. This is our Cape Cod.
I’m glad. I vow to be mentally prepared in 2021, but I wasn’t ready this past May.
This year’s Brood II largely missed Northern Virginia. South of us, some areas were inundated, as expected. Friends with vacation homes around Lake Anna near Charlottesville were dealt a true cicada full house. They saw Brood II up close in all its red-eyed, rambuctious, ear-splitting, smelly glory. As for our neighborhood, it was no louder than usual, and no more critter-crowded than usual.
It wasn’t until toward the end of July that we first began hearing isolated cicadas chirping at night. This is a sound I love. It’s the soothing music of a summer night in the South, one that takes me back to my childhood bedroom in Atlanta. The windows are open, a fan is whirring, and the cicadas are singing, pleasantly, contentedly.
There were no cicadas in Cape Cod where we vacationed, and the nights seemed too quiet. We heard only crickets, the wind, an occasional coyote, and some chattering, laughing teenagers (including my own). The cicadas welcomed us home to Virginia.
I still have not seen a cicada this summer. During a walk, Kiko and I heard one buzzing loudly in the grass. He pounced, fox-like, but it escaped him, and I pulled my little dog away. The only visual cicada evidence I’ve discovered is a single, perfectly round, half-inch-diameter hole in a bare spot below the bird feeder. Nine years ago, our lawn was alarmingly riddled with such openings. While I’m glad that’s not the case again, I do hope our lone cicada managed to fulfill its purpose and find a mate. I like to think that, in 2030, I’ll be hearing the chirping of its offspring.
Another outing my daughter and I enjoyed during our time in Atlanta was the Imaginary Worlds mosaiculture exhibit at the Botanical Gardens. This beautiful show runs through October and features fantastic topiary creations. Some, like the Earth Goddess above, are of immense proportions. We highly recommend a visit, with the note that there are many shady spots to enjoy the interesting, unusual scenery and wide variety of plant life.
This unicorn was being groomed during our visit.
The ogre appeared sleepy and mild-mannered.
One of several charming bunnies.
Nice doggie! Come! Don’t chase that rabbit!
The unique canopy walk is serene and shaded.
D posed with all the Garden frogs. . .
. . .just as she did during our first visit, in the spring of 2005.
Shortly after the end of school, we flew to Atlanta for our annual summer visit. Just as we did last year, we opted for MARTA to save my parents a drive to and from the airport, and to protect everyone from the stress provoked by that alarming ride. (See Fun with Ground Transportation, July 2012.) We waited only a few minutes at the Arts Center station before we saw Daddy rounding the corner from 16th Street in his red station wagon. My generally healthy father had frightened us this spring by catching a persistent bug that required two hospitalizations and prevented him and Mama from traveling to Virginia for our daughter’s school musical. We hadn’t seen my parents since early November, and I had been increasingly aware of their absence. I felt a real sense of delight as I saw Daddy driving up, waving, and I’m sure, whistling. He tends to whistle when he’s happy.
It was the second day of summer, and the temperature was pleasantly spring-like. Atlanta’s signature oppressive heat was blessedly absent. The city was in glorious, fragrant late June bloom. Our visit coincided with an occurrence I’ve been saddened to miss for a decade or so: the blooming of the gardenia bush outside my old bedroom window. In years past, we’ve arrived in early July, just after the heyday, when the blossoms are withered and brown. It’s like reaching the home of old friends, only to find that they left a day earlier for a year-long journey. I found it reassuring to behold those familiar, powerfully sweet-smelling blooms, snowy and velvety white. The idyllic scent of summer, and of long childhood days (without air conditioning) will always live for me in the smell of gardenias.
Gardenia blossoms.Gardenias, seen from the window of my old bedroom.
The gardenias were only one group of voices in the welcoming symphony of fragrance that greeted us as we stepped out of the car. A stand of privet, much enlarged over the years, and at the height of its bloom, bent its dense and shady canopy over the driveway. Tall hedges of abelia, buzzing with bees, hugged both sides of the house. Enormous blossoms of magnolia in the next-door neighbor’s yard could be glimpsed and enjoyed. Leaning over the fence was a mimosa tree, covered with fluffy pink flowers borrowed from a Dr. Seuss book. A few late-blooming clusters of purple wisteria still remained. To my recollection, Atlanta had never smelled better, or appeared more beautiful. It sure felt good to be back in my hometown.
Privet canopy.Abelia.Mimosa.
Wisteria.
All this week, back in Virginia after our return, the words of this melancholy John Prine song have been echoing in my mind. It may be a while before I can lay myself down again the arms of my darling hometown. I hope I’ll go there in my dreams.
Far away over the sea there’s a river that’s calling to me. That river she runs all around the place that I call my hometown.
There’s a valley on the side of a hill and flowers on an old window sill. A familiar old picture, it seems, and I go there tonight in my dreams.
Where it’s green in the summer and gold in the fall Her eyes are as blue, as the sky, I recall.
Far away over the sea there’s a place at the table for me. Where laughter and music abound. It’s waiting there in my hometown.
The river, she freezes when there’s snow on the ground, and the children can slide to the far side of town.
Far away, far away me, hung up on a sweet memory. I’m lost and I wish I were found in the arms of my darlin’ hometown.
With the evening sun settin’ on the top of the hill and the mockingbird answering the old chapel bell.
Far away over the sea my heart is longing to be. And I wish I could lay myself down in the arms of my darlin’ hometown.
Soon after the chicks first flew, the owls moved on, probably into the nearby woods. The next spring, they tried to return to nest in the same tree. We heard their cries, which by this time we had learned to translate as Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you? We caught sight of them in soundless flight.
They didn’t stay, much to our disappointment. My husband climbed a ladder to look into their former home, and saw that the shelf that had supported the nest had collapsed. He and D built an owl box together as a father-daughter project, in hopes that we could lure our feathered friends back again. In the photo immediately below, the box is visible in its first position on the tree. The owls evidently found it unsatisfactory. Maybe it wasn’t situated high enough, H thought. The following spring, he risked life and limb to attach the box much farther up in the tree, as shown in the second photo below. I remember my alarm when I returned from an errand one windy Saturday morning and saw him standing on a tall ladder by the tree, the owl box balanced precariously on one shoulder. Despite H’s grand gesture, the owls said No, thanks. They have not returned since, we are sad to say.
The immense old tree that sheltered our family of owls no longer stands. On a sunny Easter Sunday in 2011, we were eating dinner with my parents on the back porch when we heard a thunderous crash. We followed the sound to the front yard, where we discovered that half the tree had simply fallen to the ground. We knew it was nearing the end of its life span. Its hollowness was what had made it especially attractive to the owls. Still, it was painful to see so much of that massive tree splintered in pieces on the lawn.
On the tall remaining section, the never-used owl box was unscathed. Creaking sounds could be heard emanating from the tree. It couldn’t stand for long, and it was a danger, obviously. The next day, I watched with a heavy heart as the tree was slowly, painstakingly removed. It took a full crew and a huge bucket truck to reduce our dear big maple to a stump. The tree was ninety-one years old. Like the other five that once accompanied it, it had been planted in 1920, the year the house was built. I had recently spoken with one of the daughters whose parents had built the house. In her mid-nineties when we talked, she shared vivid memories of growing up in her family home. I told her how magnificent the maples were. She replied that she distinctly remembered the day she helped plant them, “from switches.”
Of the six original trees, only two remain. One day we will plant young trees in place of those we have lost. For now, though, the owls’ former home will be marked by a slowly deteriorating stump. Every tree company in northern Virginia, it seems, has stopped to give us a good price for stump grinding. We always say no. Unlike the owls, we find it hard to move on.
On the left, one of our two remaining silver maples. On the right, the stump of what will always be for us the owl tree.
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.
