Seasonal Rites of Passage

There are certain activities that, although they are practical and necessary, have become rituals, seasonal rites of passage. There is a feeling of solemnity for some of them and celebration for others. Last week we observed some of them as we worked and went about our tasks.

Living in a house that is almost 150 years old on three acres of land with eight big maple trees, two large vegetable gardens, two large flower gardens, and an orchard with over thirty fruit trees, there is an unending list of tasks to do. Some tasks are seasonal and recurring like planting and harvesting, mowing, weeding, and raking leaves. Some are less frequently necessary like re-roofing the house or redoing a room. Some are things that will only be done one time once they are done – big projects like building a wrap-around porch, remodeling the kitchen and other rooms, and digging a root cellar. My project list is always long and ever changing and I like it that way. I would hate to run out of things to do.

Monday was Columbus Day and there was no school. I had a day that was all mine to use and I had two children home to help me with whatever I chose to undertake that day. I had a list – build a new raised bed and plant garlic in it, clean up the two vegetable gardens and till and mulch them for the winter, and clean the barn. My list was a bit unrealistic and I knew it, but we tried to accomplish as much as we could. The weather cooperated for once. The day was warm and the chance for rain that was forecast never happened. We started with cleaning out the vegetable gardens. We pulled up plastic mulch, pulled up weeds and rotten vegetables, and hauled them to the compost pile. Around midday Josiah and I drove to Genesee to get lumber for a new raised bed. When we returned, we spent the rest of the afternoon building it and filling it with compost and soil. That’s all we accomplished. It was hard work. It took longer than I thought it would. I was glad we got it done.

Cleaning out the vegetable garden.

Hauling debris to the compost pile.

On Tuesday everyone went to work at their various jobs – Stacey, Hannah, and Miriam to their work, Josiah to the funeral home, me to school. The weather that day was perfect and I was sad to spend the day indoors at school. When I got home, I rushed to work outdoors in what remained of the day. I spent an hour mowing leaves in the front yard. They were deep and dry and more were falling even as I mowed. When Josiah arrived home, he helped me plant garlic. Then as evening came on, we made a fire. It was our ritual annual burning of leaves and a bonfire to get rid of orchard trimmings and other dry garden debris. We had another lovely sunset that night.

The Burning of the Leaves.

Sunset on Tuesday.

I wasn’t called in to school on Wednesday. Everyone else went away to work. I went outside. It was a beautiful, perfect fall day. First I walked the garden and admired the plants that are still hanging on. The anemones were at their finest. The zinnias were tired looking, but there were a dozen monarch butterflies on the flowers all day. I think they were fueling up for their migration south. Our fall crop of raspberries is still going strong and I paused to eat a few (quite a few). Then I got to work. I tilled the vegetable gardens and then spent the rest of my time cleaning out flowerbeds. It’s time to plant fall bulbs and I need to clear away plants whether they are done blooming or not. I felt a twinge of sadness as I ripped out plants still in flower, but it couldn’t be helped. The garden moves on a schedule. I didn’t finish and the rest of the week was rainy, so I’ll have to continue my labors this week.

Anemones.

Monarchs in the zinnias.

Ripe raspberries.

The small garden tilled.

The big garden tilled.

When everyone arrived home that afternoon we loaded thirteen five gallon buckets of apples into the Yukon and drove up to Lain’s Cider Mill in Canisteo, New York. I had intended to take our apples to our local Amish cider mill, but he couldn’t press for me until Saturday and the apples couldn’t wait that long. Lain’s Cider Mill has been in business for over 35 years. We’ve taken apples to them before. It’s a place with a lot of “atmosphere” – old buildings that look a bit run down, big bins of apples for sale, piles of pumpkins, vats of vinegar fermenting, and apple cider donuts made fresh. We loaded our apples on the conveyor belt and in no time they were washed, ground, and loaded into the press. Our thirteen buckets yielded twenty-four gallons of delicious, dark brown, sweet cider. We gave some of it away as gifts, kept some out to drink now, and loaded the rest into the freezer. If we parcel it out right, we should have enough cider to get us to next year’s pressing. I love apple cider. I think this is the best cider we’ve ever made and I think it is because of the high proportion of Golden Russet apples in it. They are called the “Champagne of Cider Apples.” Cider making is one of our most anticipated autumn events. We don’t get to do it every year because some years there are no apples to press. But this was a good year and taking that first sip of fresh cider is a ritual I love.

Apples on the conveyor.

Ground apples on the press.

Ready to be pressed.

Filling the jugs.

A year's supply of cider!

For a few days last week we had a brief Indian Summer. The weather was warm and dry. By the week’s end, it was gone. The rain came and with it colder air. Thursday it was brisk. Friday it was downright cold. We finally gave in and lit the furnace and the heater in the upstairs hall on Friday evening. Another seasonal rite of passage that says there’s no more denying that the cold weather has arrived and will be with us for a long time.

With one skunk dead on the road and another shot and disposed of last week, I was hoping that our skunk problem was over. I was wrong. There is still one more (at least) and it has been ripping the lawn apart with a vengeance. This one is more wily and has done its damage unseen by any of us. One of these nights it will show itself and we will shoot it too. In the meantime, parts of my lawn are in tatters.

What the skunk does to my lawn.

Our fall leaves were not spectacular this year. There was a little bit of color, a tree here, a tree there, but nothing amazing. Most of the trees just turned brown and dropped their leaves. Most of the trees are already bare. The maples in our yard were dull and most of the leaves have fallen. Even the sumacs, which are usually dazzlingly red, are dull this year. It’s a disappointment. Now we’ll have to wait another whole year and hope that next year will be better.

Yesterday we went to the temple. I love going to the temple, especially at this time of year. To get to Palmyra we must drive across western New York through the Finger Lakes area. I was in a state of high anticipation as we set out early yesterday morning. The Potter County fall leaves might be dull, but I hoped New York’s leaves would be brighter. They were, but the weather was so drizzly and overcast, they didn’t appear their best. The drive home was a little sunnier. We stopped at the overlook by Canandaigua Lake to take some photos.

New York on the way home from Palmyra.

Canandaigua Lake.

When we got home from Palmyra, we spent the rest of the day working on projects. It was chilly and there were occasional bouts of drizzle, but we managed to get things done. Josiah and Stacey worked on loading firewood onto the back porch. Our need for it is about to increase dramatically. I planted fall bulbs. Burying bulbs in the ground on a chilly, wet October day, all the while envisioning a day sometime next spring when I will see them again as tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths, is an annual ritual I cherish. It is an act of hope. A reminder that the coming cold days will not last forever. There will be spring.

Firewood stacked on the back porch.

When I finished planting my bulbs, I finished another autumn ritual – the cleaning of the back porch steps. All summer long the back porch steps have been a place where I display potted plants – geraniums, rosemary, and lantana. It is also where the rain barrel stands that collects water from the roof that I use to water my gardens. All of it is gone now. The potted plants are on the back porch protected for a while until either the cold penetrates far enough to kill them, or I spare them and bring them into the house for the winter. The rain barrel is drained and in storage down in the barn. The only thing left on the steps is the potted passionflower vine. It is so entwined on the porch post that I can’t move it. It is at the mercy of the weather. I will remove its remains after the frost kills it. The steps look so bare and empty now.

The empty back porch stairs.

This morning when I went down to do the morning chores, the thermometer read 33° – one degree short of freezing. As I approached the barn, several robins flew out of the rose thicket on the bank. They’ve been there several days eating the rose hips. These are not our local robins – they left weeks ago. These are robins from someplace north of us that only now are headed south and have stopped to refuel in my rose bushes. I was happy to see them, but also wished them on their way. The other summer birds, the swallows, red-winged blackbirds, bluebirds, hummingbirds, and grosbeaks are all gone now. The birds at my feeders now are the ones that will be here all winter to brighten my days – finches, nuthatches, woodpeckers, jays, and juncos.

The week ahead will be busy – I hope. I feel more and more urgency to get things battened down for winter. I haven’t seen any warnings of frost or snow yet, but I can sense it coming and I want to be ready.