Outside The Box

A reliable indicator of the perfect morning temperature is when butter left on the sill of an open kitchen window is firm enough to hold its shape but soft enough to spread on a biscuit with approximately the same amount of force it takes to drag a razor across two-day stubble. Not to get too technical about it, but that temperature is about 64 degrees.

Waking up to that perfect temperature in mid-August is one of the reasons I prefer the higher elevations. In the spring, the mountain dwells in the past, but in August, it glimpses the future. While the hillsides are still verdant from the generous rains, a few leaves begin to curl up and fall, and before the month is over, chilled ribbons of high country air will flow down and mix with the warm breeze for a thrill just this side of a shiver.

The mountain in August is a man in his forties, still possessed of youthful vigor but discovering just a touch more forehead than he had before. The flowers of summer have faded, but the fall blooms are yet to come, and the harvest.

When I was slightly taller than my grandfather’s walking stick, we would sometimes take a walk in late August to a special place he called “the old sawmill hollow,” where we scouted out the location of chinquapins that would be ripening in September. I haven’t seen a chinquapin growing wild in years.

Like the red alders that purify creek water and prevent bank erosion while sustaining insect-eating birds, chinquapins are now scarce. They have fallen victim to the undergroving practiced by developers aiming to satisfy customers who, frankly, I wish would just move to Yorkshire. In Yorkshire, the picturesque, treeless rolling hills already match their idealized rural landscape. The silt that turns the water brown after a rain is a clear indication that this is certainly not Yorkshire.

The rooster crows as the gray sky in the east yields to strawberry and magenta. A lone crow, a scout, flaps lazily overhead toward the ridge where he and his kin keep watch. They are quiet now as the valley wakes up, and if something should move that doesn’t look right, they will tell us about it. A gardener I know is frequently raided by crows. He shoots them and puts them on spikes as a warning, and still they come. We provide the crows a home, and they have never once taken as much as a kernel of corn. Nature can be ruthless, but it isn’t stupid.

Peaches and I surprised a young female bear on our morning walk to feed the chickens, quite safe from bears in their reinforced chicken fortress. She was cute as a button and dangerous as a bear. I know she’s female because of her big “Cuthbert Rumbold” ears. She’s still young enough to climb a tree when startled, but the broken branches tell me that she’ll soon be beyond that as she starts putting on weight for the winter.

I wish there were some chinquapins to help her add to that winter coat. I’m hoping she’ll dig up and eat that yellow jacket nest behind the blueberry bushes before she moves on up to higher ground. “Aren’t you afraid of the bears?” Cautious, not afraid, like I’m cautious with the electricity that surrounds me. I’m not going to crowd a bear or get between her and her cubs just like I’m not going to stick my finger in an electrical socket.

The tomatoes have grown heavy with fruit and they need tying. I’m determined to pick those peaches before the squirrels do, and Tracey’s bell peppers are ready to harvest. These are things best done before the heat of the day, but there’s time for a second cup of coffee as the first rays of the sun peek over the ridge, and there’s always time for gratitude and the counting of blessings.