Outside The Box

It’s chilly this morning, but there is a sunny spot in the backyard where the makings of this year’s last tomato sandwich cling bravely to the vine in defiance of the changing seasons and the cold air that flows down from the mountain now, turning sourwoods crimson. The tomatoes were exceptionally good this year, and I will miss them dearly. It is to weep.

The love/hate relationship with our persimmon trees continues this fall. Such beautiful trees with distinctive bark and colorful fall foliage, and the fruit, sweet and pumpkin-flavored after the frost, falling, relentlessly falling. Nothing less than the gales of November will finally remove the last of the sticky orbs that stain the driveway, form a durable cement on the windshield of any vehicle within range, and invariably find their way deep into the crevices of boots and shoes.

The mama bear who lives nearby loves persimmons without reservation. In her urgent need to fatten up for the winter ahead, she will visit in the wee hours of the morning and down at least fifty at a time, judging from the compact little piles of seeds she leaves behind as she departs. Most of the persimmon trees you find in the southern Appalachians passed through a bear or a raccoon to be scarified before germination. The thought occurs every time I have to scrape my boots.

Tracey’s friend, Buddy, the Carolina sparrow she rescued from the cat, came by yesterday morning and perched on the shoulder of the Halloween ghost hanging under the deck. He bounced there for a while and sang a song to remind us it was time to put out the squirrel-proof feeder for his favorite sunflower seeds. This morning he brought his whole family and returned to his perch to sing in celebration of the bounty. Mama Bear likes sunflower seeds too, so we have to remember to bring that feeder inside at night.

The bees look strong going into the fall as they hurry to gather as much pollen as possible from the diminishing blooms in the meadow. The Jerusalem artichoke and partridge pea are almost gone, but the aster and chrysanthemum are just getting started. The newest hive is heavy with honey. I covet the unique flavor of our homegrown mix of blackberry, sourwood, and wildflowers, but the bees need it more than we do. We never steal honey until early summer of a hive’s second year, and only if there is enough to spare.

The crows are having a raucous discussion up on the ridge where they meet – no hawks will trouble the chickens today. In the garden down by the creek, my grandmother’s heirloom beans move from desiccation to dormancy. They are almost ready to be harvested for next year’s seed. Squirrels are planting walnuts and barking insults at each other and anyone who passes by.

A rich tapestry of sound hides in the quiet of the countryside at the edge of the woods. We say it’s quiet because we don’t notice the intricacy, like we don’t hear the sound of our own heartbeat, but the spirit remembers what the mind has forgotten. We head to the country in droves, drawn by something visceral that we don’t understand, but the sound at the source of that urging is blocked by earbuds, and the sight of it is filtered through the ever-present handheld devices through which we now live our lives.

I am alone in the wilderness, then the wind shifts and the distant sound of an old man mowing the dying grass of a quarter-acre lot with a zero-turn mower breaks the spell. It’s funny and it’s sad because he can’t think of anything else to do with his time. As much as I enjoy operating an excavator, every time I hear one crank up, I know there’s a good chance that the racket will be followed eventually by the sound of a mower, and I want to walk deeper into the woods.

Autumn is a time traveler. Friendly ghosts whisper from the rustle of leaves overhead. The intricacy of the Creator’s hand falls away to reveal majesty in the shape of the mountain underneath. The crunch of the leaves recalls the footsteps of a 14-year-old and his dog, an apple and a Snickers bar in his pocket, the first shotgun he got for his birthday resting on his shoulder in practiced casualness. The days were endless then, and the game afoot was adventure and unlimited possibilities.

An ancient arrowhead of white quartz by the trail, a square nail in a chestnut rail, and an old tin cup by a spring remind me that I’m not the first to walk this path, nor will I be the last. Paleo-Indian, Archaic, Woodland, and Mississippian wanderers walked these woods. My arrowhead could be 12,000 years old, and the 14-year-old who lost it long ago also thought he would live forever. Green leaves turn brown and fall, but I’m not ready to shop for that mower just yet, and there are still tomatoes on the vine.