Last Fall

The great storyteller Rudyard Kipling, who lived in southern Vermont for a time, penned some lovely words about the transformation of a Vermont fall: 

"A little maple began it, flaming blood-red of a sudden where he stood against the dark green of a pine-belt. Next morning there was an answering signal from the swamp where the sumacs grow. Three days later, the hill-sides as fast as the eye could range were afire, and the roads paved, with crimson and gold. Then a wet wind blew, and ruined all the uniforms of that gorgeous army; and the oaks, who had held themselves in reserve, buckled on their dull and bronzed cuirasses and stood it out stiffly to the last blown leaf, till nothing remained but pencil-shadings of bare boughs, and one could see into the most private heart of the woods." Rudyard Kipling, Letters of Travel (1892–1920).

Whitingham, VT, birthplace of Brigham Young

This, and more, will be what I look back on about living here in the Upper Valley. Fall here is perfection. This final year in northern New England has brought us down to our lasts: our last beach trip to Maine, our last blueberry picking in Lyme, and now our last fall harvest season surrounded by high-definition warm-colored leaves shimmering across the mountainsides and trickling through the river valley.

Baker Library, Dartmouth campus

Billings Farm, Woodstock, VT

Fire Station in Grafton, VT

Killdeer Farm, Norwich, VT

view of Hartford, VT and into New Hampshire

But has this been our final Fall? Returning as a leaf peeper doesn't feel right. Not too long ago on a family drive through the back roads, Boy and I sat stunned at the charming and unpretentious scene in front of us. There were leaves that sparkled as they fluttered on the tops of trees. There were dairy cows roaming on pastures of grass that were at least seven different gradients of green. There were wise old barns that stood tall and strong despite worn doors and peeling paint. Covered bridges, meandering rivers, jaunty farm stands, and white steepled churches. We looked at each other and asked, "Why are we leaving?" It was then that we made a solemn pinky swear that we'd return in retirement or after our brood of kids leave the nest. So perhaps this won't be our last. Until the golden years are upon us, that question will linger around for now.

Colors are not around for very long. And it breaks my heart to leave this wonderful place filled with wonderful people. Farewell, Fall of my dreams. For now.

"Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay." Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay," New Hampshire, 1923. 

Living With Trains

Clickety click! as out of town
The engine picks her way;
Where barefoot children, sunburnt brown,
In dusty alleys play.
All the summer early and late,
And in the summer drear, 
A maiden stands at the orchard gate,
And waves at the engineer.

(excerpt from "Clickety Clack," Cy Warman)

I like to see it lap the miles, 

And lick the valleys up,

And stop to feed itself at tanks;

And then, prodigious, step

Around a pile of mountains,

And supercilious, peer

In shanties by the sides of roads;

And then a quarry pare

To fit its sides, and crawl between

Complaining all the while

In horrid, hooting stanza;

Then chase itself down hill

And neigh like Boanerges;

Then, punctual as a star,

Stop--docile and omnipotent--

At its own stable door.

("The Railway Train," Emily Dickinson)

Trains are a part of our daily routine. They greet us at the same hour in the morning and they remind us when its time for story books and bed. Not a day goes by that we don't hear those whistles coming from the train tracks near our home. For these two siblings, life couldn't get better.

Finally Fall

Fall, at last, it's you and me.
I should compose a sonnet about you every year...but I'll have to freshen up on my Shakespeare first.
Because of you, my color of choice year-round is orange. Ooh, and citrus orange season is around the corner. Drool.
I still wish I could celebrate my birthday during leaf changing splendor.
I adore you more than those brown paper packages tied up with string.
I need you like apples + cinnamon need a buttery flaky pie crust.
I relish your mornings filled with chilled crisp air that pinken my nose, your afternoons that warm my face while my neck cozies into a soft scarf, and your evenings filled with haunting quiet stillness.
You're all I yearn for during the winter, spring, and summer.
You're the most wonderful time of the year--shouldn't there be a song for that?

Fall, I love you. Let me count the ways...

the notches/kancamagus highway/white mountain state park white mountains, nh

woodstock bridge, vt

watching apple ice cream being made at billings farm, woodstock, vt.

misty morning on the connecticut, dartmouth rowing, nh/vt border

norwich, vt

Fall is no doubt the best season of the year in New England. My home hosted two sets of visitors last month...I'm hoping to entice more. Let me know, and I'll book you on my wide-open calendar.

Fall, please stay a little while. Christmas can wait.

Adios to Summer

Summers ago as a child--long before summer became tainted with high school boys and jeep rides--I remember spending the dog days in Utah's dry heat at my community swimming pool. My skin would brown like toast, my stellar underwater handstands (hands up, stands up) would outlast my friends, and I'd snack on a bagel cream cheese shmear from the concession stand and frozen grapes brought from home. Me and my wet friends would dry off in the breeze and hot sun, sitting in the back of my dad's pickup as he drove us all home. By the end of the summer, my swimming suit was saturated with a permanent stench of chlorine no matter how many times it ran through my mother's washing machine cycle.

Thirty years from now, my kids won't be talking about their cherished memories of the Summer 2012. They're too young to remember much of the life they will have spent here in our little mint green home. As their mother, summoning up those memories for them will be my responsibility. Photographs must do their job to help me tell their stories:

I will tell them of walks to the duck pond up the street, a sack of dried white sandwich bread in hand, to not only feed a family of ducks, but the catfish and turtles as well.

I'll describe our backyard--a critter wonderland--and explain how we'd catch and release the frogs jumping in our lawn and when we kept long green caterpillars hostage in mason jars with punctured lids.

I'll think of all the rows of blueberry bushes growing on the wayside of the Connecticut River; filling our pail and filling their tummies during an impromptu game of hide-and-go-seek.

I tell them of all the summer festivals and local events that we were able to attend--while their admission was still free: Quechee Balloon Festival, Norwich Fair, WRJ Glory Days Festival, Lebanon Coop Dairy Days, and the local farmers' market.

Did I miss anything? Probably. We tried to make Saturdays more enjoyable than a day of mowing the lawn and scouring the house clean.

And we can't forget our outing to our local theme park that tries very hard to be Disney: Story Land. Deep-friend Oreos and riding the train was enough to make all of our eyes pop out.

I'll pull out the bright orange Home Depot apron and say, "Hey, can you believe that this used to fit around your waist?" and explain how hard they worked on once-a-month building projects.

I will tell them of weekly visits to the library story hour. I'll tell them of their fondness for Mrs. Frappier at the "Reading Room" and how she'd always have clever crafts to tie in with the story she read aloud.

What fun we had meeting up with friends at the park, swimming at the pond or at the dam, canoeing on the Connecticut, feeding fish at the hatchery, petting farm animals, riding bikes in our driveway, counting down the days to reunite with family they barely got to see.

Our summer was not too full, not too boring...it was just right.

My heart might be getting sick typing out all these memories. Nostalgia for childhood always gets my nose hurting. I don't like wanting the feeling to chase after the past, yet those dimpled faces, chubby cheeks, sticky hands, girly squeals, and evenly spaced out teeth that appear as miniature chicklets encourage me that they will stay just a wee longer. As long they run downstairs to the master bedroom to climb into bed for early morning cuddles, they're still little ones to me. They won't remember how small they used to be, but I will. Oh, yes I will. I will cling to it like any parent would. In another thirty years, it will seem like another lifetime.

I'll try not to start thinking about that. Enough nostalgia for one day.