Verlyn Klinkenborg is always a joy to read. "Falling Behind the Season" in yesterday's Times is no exception. He reminds me that since returning to northern California from New England and Norway I've often been struck by the contrasts of the coming of seasons. They move more subtly here; they exist — I have only to look out my window now at the autumn colors of maple trees — but that color is usually less bold than in New England, and — I'm grateful at this stage of life — winter registers more as chill in the air and only occasional frost. One can more easily garden year round, and the light is wonderful. So is the fog rolling over the hills from the Pacific Ocean.
New York Times
October 5, 2012
Falling Behind the Season
By Verlyn Klinkenborg
The dog wakes me at 5:15 and we go out. The only sound is dew falling from the maple branches. Directly overhead, the Moon and Jupiter are traveling together, as they will for another night or two. In the east, Venus coasts high above the horizon. Ceilidh steps high through the wet grass, hoping to keep her belly dry, but then plunges her face into the pasture thatch following a scent. It is never too early to follow a scent.
You can tell from the sky overhead that the day will burn off bright and clear by late morning. But for now the fog waits motionless, soaking everything.
In upstate New York, the maples are nearly done shedding their leaves. The goldenrod has gone out. The hickories are just now preparing their histrionics, billowing upward in yellow, waiting for the day when the wind and the rain will bring their leaves down all at once. I shuffle my feet in the leaves on the pasture edge, and can’t help wondering where the light has gone when there seemed so much of it not long ago.
Perhaps Ceilidh can sense what kind of winter we’ll be having. Not me. I caught three mice in the kitchen traps in a single night last week, and found myself wondering, as I disposed of their bodies, what had made the mice so bold. I’d like to know what the chipmunk middens look like now and how well the red squirrels have provisioned themselves. One of these mornings, I’ll hear the sound of geese overhead, hidden by the fog. For now, I make do with ladybugs landing silently on the kitchen windows.
Every day I look around in disbelief, remembering how surprised I was when spring began. I’m still busy being surprised by spring. I’ll be ready for fall by February, always behind the season and pretty certain I’ll never catch up.