April May Not Be the Cruelest Month

Decades ago, the poet T.S. Eliot told us April was the cruelest month. For years, I’ve accepted his word on this without question. After all, her weather is a bit more than schizophrenic, switching from balmy spring breezes to stinging ice pellets in a matter of hours.

After this past Saturday, I’m thinking September may beat my birth month out for this title. How do we go from stunning 90 degree temps one week, late summer blooms, happy butterflies and jewel-toned hummingbirds fattening themselves on autumn –tinged nectar to curled and blackened leaves and no lovely creatures flitting from one blossom to another overnight?

In less than a fortnight during early September, Mother Nature switched gears on her big and little darlings. Humans replaced shorts and t-shirts with slacks and sweaters. Some turned on furnaces to burn off that early morning chill caused by temperatures in the 30s. Unfortunately, birds and insects caught mid-migration didn’t have the same options people had to adapt to this harsh change.

Within 24 hours, weather that had provided a lush fall banquet for flying creatures sent any still moving to fly south as fast as their wings could carry them. Unfortunately, some were either too busy eating to pay attention to the shift in the barometer, or they just didn’t get going fast enough. I don’t know the answer. However, after that tomato-killing frost, I saw monarchs with wings like stained glass windows frozen to death, their bodies flattened on the ground beneath their last perches.  

Recent autumns have spoiled me into believing the first frost wouldn’t come until after the beginning of October. Though I’d noticed a slow-down and smaller sizes in tomato production, I assumed we had at least a month before we had to worry about Jack Frost swooping into our yard with his chilling crystals. I was sure the Weather Channel frost advisories were just apocalyptic hype sometimes promoted by the media because it draws ratings. Even my husband, who reads weather better than most, thought the meteorologists were crying wolf. 

While covering my tomatoes might have lengthened their season by a couple of weeks, nothing I could have done would have saved either the two little hummers frequenting our plastic feeders or the butterflies still flitting from one zinnia or cosmos blossom to another where they extended their curling tongues to taste one last bit of Kansas summer.

Fall is a still my favorite season, but  Mother Nature has put me on notice that I can’t count on enjoying weeks and weeks of bird and butterfly watching. I’m wondering how long we have before we see only stark skeletons of once fully dressed trees. She may also be telling me that this winter will be a bit rougher than those in the past were. Perhaps I better prepare better for this and stock up on sunflower seeds and suet blocks to feed overwintering birds.  

Savoring Season's Cusp

Sometimes I find myself straddling a fence both literally and figuratively.  With my left leg on one side of barbed wire and my right on the other while I maintain control of that top strand, I pause to look both ways and consider which is best.  What am I leaving and where am I going? The cusp of summer and fall generate similar thoughts. 

As  a kid, I loved long summer days that meant playing Marco Polo and diving to exhaustion at the local pool, followed by evening games of tag and hide and seek.  Even after streetlights flickered on, sounds of kids hollering, “You’re it!” echoed throughout our sheltered cul-de-sac. While mowing required sweat, it also meant immersion in the scent of fresh cut grass.  After the shearing, it meant a barefoot massage as we walked over the carpet of stubbly lawn.  So much sensory delight only made me love summer more.

As an adult, summer remained my favorite season for years.  I relished long days out of doors, only now I hoed, planted, weeded, or harvested ripe vegetables.  Depending on the month, it meant picking cherries, chokecherries, apricots, pears, plums, grapes, or apples and then playing kitchen alchemist to turn them into jelly jewels.  It permitted watching fireflies dance across the yard and hearing  little ones giggle as they tried to capture them.  It was enjoying late night amphibian and insect orchestral productions. 

Time passed, and I changed. As a result, instead of dreading autumn, I  now anticipate it.  Through the years, I’ve learned  each equinox intensifies those numbered days.  At the beginning of summer, it seems I have forever to accomplish goals.  When day and night are equal, I appreciate each moment in my garden and yard because I know a single frost will soon end the growing season. 

Nature’s music sounds different as birds and insects prepare for southern journeys.  No longer do I hear mothers coaching young ones out of the nest.  Locust tunes are slow and lazy if they occur at all.  Toad and frog mating calls  cease while silent fireflies that performed to the other creatures’ refrains are buried larvae awaiting resurrection.

I visit our hilltop garden several times a day to see how the butternuts are curing and how this last tomato crop is finishing.  I loved reading about how Laura Ingalls Wilder’s family stored provisions for winter, so putting away golden squash  and carrots to eat in the coming months connects me to her pioneer stories.  Green tomatoes make great fried treats and relishes.  If there are enough big ones, I box them to mature so we have garden goodies well into December.

Each day, I walk through our pasture enjoying the blooms of Maximilian sunflowers, golden rod, and snow on the mountain.  Tawny buffalo and purple-red big blue stem grasses complement yellow blooms, creating an arrangement that competes with any early summer floral display.

While I relish summer’s warmth and seeming wealth of time, autumn has become my golden hoard.  I look forward to going through my closet and drawers to  exchange thin cotton clothing for bulkier sweaters and flannel pajamas.  This ritual along with my farewells to the garden and migrating feathered friends makes me feel like a snake shedding its summer skin. 

This folded edge between seasons is a gift.  As these days of sunlight and warmth overlap coming darkness and quiet, I give thanks for the blessings of each.