Hint of New England in autumn

Late summer yellows and browns are dotted with white and purple asters. The geraniums in their glazed blue pots are blooming furiously along with the gone-wild petunias in the kitchen garden. But word is out, autumn is landing.

I couldn't decide if I should mow the lawns once more or call it done. The quack grass is bold and in places was tall and the back lawn was sprouting with pople seedlings so the mower came out. Just past mid-day the air was warm and dry. Usually I start mowing where the grass is thickest and highest (east and north lawns) just in case the mower breaks down or I run out of gas, but today I mowed in long paths--front by the road to the back edge before the woods. I mowed slowly, no hurry to be done.

More than cutting grass, I surveyed my little landmarks. The deer have pruned up the cedars high enough now it is easier to mow under them. And the white pines, so soft to touch, have had their skirts shortened a bit. More mushroom that need to be picked and thrown away so the dogs can't get them, and a few noxious weed like burdock and stinging nettle need to go soon.

Along the edge near the back side of the garage, a blackberry bush held a beautiful cluster of late ripening shiny berries to the sun and they were a treat for me.

Near the Cocker Garden, where my beloved dogs are buried, I clumsily ran over some tiny volunteer Love-In-A-Mist flowers that fringe my Fancy's grave. Some are still there, but won't bloom anymore this year. Ami's grave is spilling over with bouquets of blue forget-me-nots and white sweet alyssum--on ground that rarely grows anything. It is Ami, my darling Ami, who brings such beauty to life.

Moving between the shade of the majestic centurion maple into the sunny grassy lawns I felt content. Serene. Life is so fragile but this moment is perfect.

I had a sense of New England spun from some memory of a book or a film--Then I remembered... Newhart! Safe. Predictable. Honest. If only make believe.
Our reality now is it is time of the harvest--what we've all worked for and now hope to store for the long winter. Life is ripe for the picking.