Vermont Weathervane -- The Time of Falling Leaves

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CELEBRATE THE SEASON:
The Time of Falling Leaves
by Mary Lou Healy

Autumn: The Exultant March to Death
by Zephine Humphrey

Emilo's Creations are Gourd-eous
by Kirt Zimmer

A Harvest of Fall Recipes

POETRY:
A Vermont Walk in October
by Daniel L. Cady

When the Frost is on the Punkin
by James Witcomb Riley

GARDENING:
Legends of the Chrysanthemum
by Leonard Perry

EVERYTHING WOOD HEAT:
Drop Me a Liner
by Daryle Thomas

INTO THE OUTDOORS:
Long Trail Therapy
An Excursion into the Woods Rekindles the Spirit.

VERMONT WEATHERVANE BOOK NEWS:
Passing Strange
True Tales of New England Hauntings and Horrors

Richard Brown's New England
A new book by acclaimed photographer Richard Brown.

GET OUT AND ABOUT:
Views Through Time:
A Driving Tour of Rutland County, Vt.

Vermont Country Calendar

EXPLORE OUR OTHER SEASONS:
FALL
WINTER
SPRING
SUMMER

If you didn't pass through Rural, Vermont to get to this site you may want to make a small detour.

It's worth the trip!

Write Us:
weathervane
@ruralvermont.com
We welcome your comments, suggestions, and questions.

or call: 802-645-9631
RD 1, Box 680
West Pawlet, VT 05775

The Time of Falling Leaves
by Mary Lou Healy

October closes the autumn season in spectacular fashion with nature's annual show of pyrotechnics, the explosion of red and gold that blazes across hill and valley. Lenape Indians called it the "time of falling leaves."

It's easy to develop a split personality in October. There's a love-hate ambivalence connected to it. We love it. Summer's heat has been tempered by crisp fall air. We welcome pilgrims from afar to the annual foliage viewing. With them, we immerse ourselves in the last great display of the year, the silent song of the leaves.

I remember how happily we brought them to school and learned to preserve them in waxed paper...the red of sumac, the yellow of birch, ginko, ash and hickory, the salmon-pink of sassafras, the russet and burgundy of oak and, always, the glory of multi-hued maples: scarlet, orange, vermilion, gold and even purple.

I always preferred to believe that Jack Frost painted the trees for my delight until some spoil-sport had to explain more than I ever wanted to know about the process...how the warm, bright days encourage sugar production, while the cold nights trap it in the leaves, causing red pigmentation. Did I need to know that the decrease in chlorophyll meant less green as anthocyanin flamed the leaves?

I much prefer the explanation given in an old Indian legend. Many, many moons ago, when sky-hunters roamed the Milky Way, they chanced upon the Great Bear. They fired shooting stars into the constellation and killed him. As he lay dying, his red blood dripped onto the green forests below.

Then the hunters, hungry from their journey, cut up the Great Bear and threw him into the Big Dipper to cook. But the pot boiled over and the rich, yellow fat spilled downward from heaven and colored other leaves in shades of gold. And now, each autumn, the land remembers and turns color to honor the Great Bear.

I enjoy one other bonus of nature in autumn. The Franklinia tree that I planted some years ago delights me with its late blooming habit. Among the red and bronze of its leaves glisten pure white blossoms with saffron hearts. It's a thing of wonder before the silver season of November drains all the color away.

* * * * * But all that is the UP side of October. The day of reckoning...or rakin' in...is the down side. The falling-down side? Time to gather and dispose of the dull brown remnants of glory.

When I was an innocent, carefree child, blessedly ignorant of workaday things, I was taught a little ditty. "Come, little leaves, said the wind one day. Come o'er the meadow with me and play...." Educators should have been preparing me for the real world. Never mind darling little leaves dancing. We should have had the facts straight from the leaf pile: when the dance is done, we're the ones who clean up the dance floor! As one neighborhood wag put it one Saturday afternoon, "The family that rakes together, aches together!"

The sight of leaves spiraling downward often inspires me to visions of innovative, if bizarre, disposal methods. Perhaps a sneaky way with a wind machine, revved up in the dead of night, to blow all my leaves into someone else's territory. But would I do that? Of coooourse not!

Another thought, which I'll donate to any inventor who cares to tinker with it, is that there must be some way to spray a very fine glue onto the trees, which would then hold leaves in place throughout the year.

Fallen leaves have their uses, I suppose. Thrifty New Englanders once, and sometimes still, put their leaves in bags placed around their house foundations, as added insulation against the winter-to-come. It's called "banking the house" and can be surprisingly effective at reducing floor-level drafts.

Then there are compost heaps. Compost heaps are a dull business, really. Occasionally I see a well-tended heap going about its job of rotting into a compound over which a gardener, some future day, will gloat as he enriches his soil. For a moment, I might feel a twinge of envy but never a strong enough twinge to go and do likewise. I think I'm more into instant gratification.

Strong-minded individuals simply refuse to acknowledge the existence of leaves once they hit the ground. They just ignore the little rustlers until they either blow away down the avenue or rot where they lie. I've also read of a homeowner who will not mow his lawn. He prefers the "natural look." Perhaps back-to-nature enthusiasts like non-mowers and non-rakers have the right idea.

Poet Joyce Kilmer rhapsodized about how he'd "never see a poem as lovely as a tree." You can figure Kilmer probably never had to rake leaves! He had a gardener. Or lived in a penthouse apartment. A friend of mine considers Kilmer's lyric poem, "Trees," the greatest ever. She was devastated to learn that it was not one of his favorite verses. Perhaps he had a change of heart after writing it. Or perhaps someone gave him a leaf rake on his birthday.

* * * * * Yes, October, time of falling leaves is here, the month of leaves dancing. But April is a month of leaves, too, with its softly shimmering flutter of tender green. So is July, with canopies of dark, rich emerald under whose cool shade we seek refuge from the noonday sun. And December comes, when dark branches are outlined against a pale, cold sky, devoid of leaves but wearing stars instead.

The pageantry of autumn is soon finished but hold this thought that someone once expressed - One of the nicest things about October is that November isn't here yet.
Mary Lou Healy, an "umpteenth generation" New Englander, writes regularly for our journal, most likely as an excuse to avoid raking leaves.