I lit a fire in the wood stove last night, keeping the downstairs of the house warm for the puppies. I was glad of it this morning, when the thermometer read 32F. I added a log and opened the damper, and flames leapt and crackled.
Outside the world showed frosty evidence of the drop in temperature.
A thin skim of ice covered the duck pool and animal water containers.
The ducks don't seem to care.
It won't be long until it is too cold to use the garden hoses, and watering the animals will become a far more difficult chore than it is in the warm months. I don't take the gift of running water lightly.
This time of year tends to make me nostalgic. I hear the calls of Canada Geese as they pass overhead, heading south, and am transported to the yard of my childhood home. My father spent hours each fall, raking leaves from the lawns. The yard was deeply shaded by tall oak and maple trees, and they created much work when the leaves fell. Dad would rake them into an old shower curtain liner, then gather the corners up and haul it, full to bursting, to a part of the property near a wooded area called, "The Edge." There was a sharp drop off here, and each years bounty of leaves helped to level out this area. After 30 autumns he had built the space up enough to create a sloping lawn there. He would always burn some leaves, too, the fragrant smoke curling blue up to meet the chilly sky, where the calls of migrating geese haunted the air. I had my own little rake, and would make small piles beside his big ones. Of course, some of the bigger piles got jumped in, over and over, until they needed to be redone and taken off to the edge.
Last week, using the miracle of the internet, I brought up Tom Rush's version of the song "Urge for Going." I played it for Rachel while we worked. Again I was swept back in time, sitting in the passenger seat of my brothers old Mustang, Tom Rush singing from an 8 track tape shoved into the dashboard. Dana drove fast but well, the car bouncing over the rutted back roads, and I was joyful to be there with him, hearing the yearning song as the fall foliage few past.
Back then my roots were shallow, holding me in place just long enough to grow, and sprout some wings. I had yearnings of my own, as intangible as the perfume of burning fall leaves. Now I listen to the sweet strains of this favorite song and remember the longing I once had with fondness. My roots now are deep and strong, embedded in the cooling rocky Maine soil, bracing for the time when, "bully winds rub their face down in the snow."
Urge for Going
It hovered in a frozen sky and gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
And shivering trees are standing in a naked row
And I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down winter's closing in
And not another man in town my darling's heart could win
But when the leaves fell trembling down
And bully winds did rub their face down in the snow
She got the urge for going when the meadow grass was turning brown
And summertime was falling down and winters closing in
All that stays is dying all that lives is getting out
See the geese in chevron flight
Flapping and a-racin on before the snow
No comments:
Post a Comment