10.16.13 Scandalously Red Leaves on a Quiet October Day

In the midst of a dark foggy sleep, K quietly wakes me and the old dog into the day. I rouse her, and , reticent, she stiffly gets up and climbs off the bed, shambling over to her water, as the 6 month old baby enormo pup stands beyond the gate, leaping vertically, his mouth filled with a stuffed squeaking turtle. The old dog, almost 16, is for the most part deaf and blind, but I can see her catch a whiff of the bouncing one, and bracing herself for the day.

 Dogs out; dogs in, dogs fed, and we all tumble into the car to drive K to work, Dante taking the opportunity to wash and nibble K as he climbs into the driver's seat, pulled back by me, laughing.

Myself, I'm on a leave of absence, so my job is to rest. Rest rest rest.  Take walks. And clean up a little. And draw and write, take photographs a little. And then rest again.. What a funny job. Doesn't pay well. But lots of unusual benefits. Like slowly getting better.  I'm blessed; most people can't manage this.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                



And you and I both know that so many people in the world need this. In order to get stronger so they can go on out and working again.

We drop K at the University, and I enjoy gazing at the architecture, both new and old. There are things I must write up, so the dogs have been told that this is not a fun running around morning. 

But on the way home, as I cross the highway from field to field, I catch sight of  the mist shrouded mountain range before us, exploding with such an array of color in this mid October season.

The farmers have almost completed the harvesting of corn for livestock, the tobacco has been cut and dried for months now, and brought off to market.  Roadside stands are full of glorious huge cabbage, gourds, pumpkins, squash of all shapes and types, and of course, Chrysanthemums and Asters, all of these decorating most homes you drive by, the ever present celebration of seasons, despite commercial interruption, in continuity.

  

The beautiful velvety soybean fields remain, swaying and undulating patterns as their stalks elongate  with each successive week of growth, their seedpods glistening even in this foggy morning light.

On  impulse, I hang it right before the University horse farm and the Kestrel bird sanctuary, down an untaken road that warns of a bridge out, and a dead end.

There are a couple of McMansions on the left, with several older local homes nestled into the hills, sequestered, on the right.

I turn a quiet corner between shorn fields, and come upon the two DEAD END signs, with a lump of dirt bulldozed up, behind the signs, covered with the wilde colors of the season. Evidently there was no anticipation of finding funds to repair this bridge.

There is a small home on this very end of street, relishing the quiet and privacy, Acorn and Butternut Squash piled upon their front porch, cars missing and probably off at some job.

There are footpaths both from the road in front of me to the edge of where the bridge once began, telling of a frequency of visits by humans, to peer over the edge down to the clear, beautiful stream waters below.

Another footpath is visible from this height, from the house to stream, that moves down the side of the stream, beneath the cover of trees. Someone loves the visiting and the being in this hidden quiet place.

Birds overhead call out to each other, as I, also, step to the edge of the dirt mound to drink in the colors and swirling waters and imaginings of wildlife beneath and around this place.

I return to the car, poor patient dogs waiting.

On the short way home, we pass by farmers spraying cut cornstalks into following trucks, moving slowly across the fields. One farmer is digging deep burgundy Chrysanthemums from their field, and potting them. I stop by the flea market, and wander down the paved path to take a photo of the  range, covered with fog, like a hat, sitting quietly with no wind, the air damp and heavy.

Over by the horse-farm, Yearlings canter about while someone tends to an adult horse. At another neighbor's, the beautiful golden brown horse has a male friend this season, the two of them amiable, standing close to each other, day after night.

People pull into the small car repair shop, as the Creamy IceCream stand persists in opening, and will, until your nose is bright red and the nights early and darkened. A row of cars for sale stand guard, kept company by the older man and his large furry dog, slowly making his way along the selections with some interested neighbor in need of new wheels.

The spice company has its lights out for Halloween, always the bravest, brightest, blinking-est of all in this small quiet town, while the CSA down the road is frequented by those picking up their armfuls of bright green Kale, gourds, squashes, lines of onions, and picking the last of the sunflowers and cosmos.

We head up the road, entering the woods and leaving the high fields behind, up up the small mountain range, as trucks pass along the small country road, carrying their loads to their own markets,

 a small wind now scattering the golden and brightest orange and scandalously red leaves over our heads in a shower, sweeping this way and that,

coming to rest upon our small vehicle as we turn into our own color strewn home land here, all of us tumbling out and , after a small walkabout, heading for dog breakfasts and slumber at my feet, as I sit on this beautiful day in your life and my life, and write these ramblings.