October

     

October. Maybe it is being raised in New England, surrounded by maple trees that range from deep red, to orange, to yellow, to green on one tree—sitting in the center of the glory, on a strong branch. Or it is the result of living for half of my life here, in the Pacific Northwest, knowing that, for every glorious day, there’s a cloud lurking over the hills, waiting to descend in its own delicate beauty over the hills. But I find myself drawn outside every afternoon to work the ground or walk the hills, storing up the beauty of the golden light for one more winter. October is the time to finish up the summer’s projects.

Yesterday, we washed the windows. We’re not good window washers. There are always streaks and spots left behind, but we get off the worst of the dirt and dust and bug poop from the summer. This year, between the mess we made washing the house for painting plus the ash fall in September, it was a major task. Mark washes outside. I wash inside. We also scraped paint. “You missed some glazing here,” he observed. “Next summer,” I replied. We are at that point. Next summer’s project list begins.

This afternoon, we worked in the school garden, realigning a couple of beds  and tossing down the cover crop. I’ve been prepping a bed a day all week and an hour on Sunday finished up the roughest beds. There’s plenty still to do- -tomatoes to pull, kale and carrots to weed, paths to mulch. But we took a few moments to consider future plans. We could tear out those evergreens and plant fruit trees. Put out benches so classes can come out and read. Keep pulling thistle and nut sedge and clear out the grass in the herb mound. Some of that will happen this fall, as long as the weather stays dry, but some is for next summer or the summer after that. The light slanted across the playing fields, struck the stained glass piece hung above the pollinator habitat, turned the world gold for a few moments.

We turn inward in the evenings, light a fire, eat a squash for dinner, wear wooly socks while we read. Soon, the clouds of winter will lay over us without a break—“there will be months of rain.”  But, right now, we hover on the cusp of the turning year, not quite ready to come inside. And  we start the plans for the next year.