Fall...Yum
Fall is beautiful here in the North State, as it probably is in most places. Like spring, it is a gracious bumper between the longer, more extreme seasons, and both are much more the choice if one could choose. Sadly, they are but short respites between too cold and much too hot. But we love 'em while they last.
This year, probably because it was so dry for so long and it suddenly got cold overnight, the trees exploded into scarlets and golds, the likes of which haven't been seen in years and years. Driving north, the yellows and oranges amidst the dark green firs are embarrassingly flagrant, especially when they catch the warm light of late afternoon. Like a spray of auric nuggets in a dark stream bed, haughtily demanding attention.
We haven't had any more rain since that delicious two-'n-a-half inch weekend two weeks ago and none is on the horizon; we are falling behind the norm again. I've reset the briefly-dormant sprinkler system to come back on for a coupla minutes on alternating days. And earlier this week I emptied half of the hot tub, a bucket at a time, on the trees and flowers that aren't served by the watering system. Since I don't use chemicals in the hot tub, this gives the flora a delicious bath, and I get to freshen up the tub without worrying about wasting water.
Somehow, the tomato plants are still popping blossoms, at least the cherry plant is. As long as they get sun and water, they think they're on the job and they ignore the calendar. As well they might. The mercury has climbed to eighty this week, forcing me out from behind my keyboard and up the slope to haul some brush. It's not that the brush needed to be moved, really; more that I could use the exercise and don't have a meteorological excuse to avoid it.
The skies are wonderfully more exciting in the fall. For months through the summer, they are cloudless blue and blazing. But with autumn come the clouds, some huge and billowy white, some flat and ponderously grey, and others delightfully eccentrically wispy. At times the middle atmosphere is remarkably calm, as evidenced by the contrails of jets that ply the Victor-23 airway that rides up over the coastal states and directly above our house, reaching five miles up into the stratosphere. Some days, the white trails are blown apart on the backside of the jets, and on others, they remain straight and true, fattening with time, joined by others.
Here in Northern California, unlike in my upbringing haunts of New England, fall means a rebirth, not a prelude to winter's sleep. That one period of rain was enough to start greening the hills, up where the wild critters roam, so the deer seem to have at last absented themselves from our gardens. I've taken down the strings strung with CD's; the glinting seemed to deter the marauders. But the fences will stay up; we don't want to look like a diner.
With apologies to George Carlin's Hippy-Dippy weatherman, I note simply that the seasons will change from time to time into the foreseeable future.
And that's SetonnoteS...I'm Tony Seton.
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