The morning after
Muscles moving with soreness and shivers
Dripping where once was dry
The cage door swings open
Feral beast unleashed
She bolts and does not look back
Stops to catch her heaving breath
Sweating along creased brow
Narrow vision of passion
It is all a blur
Mind blending memories with desires
How do we separate the two
After they have intertwined?
Rain turns to hail turns to snow
Winter’s white line blending with brown
A slow sad march down the mountain
Covering the last of summers stories
Faded like a sepia portrait of an old cowboy
Yesterday today tomorrow
You may say bad things comes in threes
I’d rather think of body, mind and soul
Nothing is not connected
Though too often we find ourselves alone
Seemingly old words shared with a new friend:
“As I write, I am down at the Little Cabin, our one room cabin built of old round logs, set out on the bluff above the river. Big Haus, our main home for now, is being used for the last big event of the season, so we’ve chosen to hide away down here, and I love it. A small satellite dish and solar panel which charges a battery which in turn is inverted to household power allows me the use of the computer and internet, though we have the old wood cook stove giving us heat, and candles and kerosene lamps at night by which we work. There is an outhouse nearby and when the rain and hail (and soon to be snow) are not as loud on the metal roof as they are right now, I can hear the song of the Rio Grande just below us.”
Get away, far away…
I wonder at times if I am running away? Or running to something just out of reach?
A new view, looking out of these old weathered eight-pane windows. Snow beneath the beetle killed spruce trees. Rolling waves of light and dark, subtle shades and repeated variation, hillside after hillside fading from green to grey. It’s only a matter of time.
Are we better off not looking?
Yet even blindfolded, would you feel the tears of the trees dropping their needles upon you as we stumble through the last of the shade?
Photo of Flying Crow and me, on the Divide. By Kate Seely.
Following is an essay I wrote earlier in the year. It’s long winded as I tend to be and of a different subject matter than I tend to cover. But thought I’d share it with you while I’m still 45…
I feel so far from what I thought a feminist should be. In any case, surely I am not your average feminist (if ever there was such a thing). I simply do not look the part.
Now isn’t that a funny thought? What does a feminist look like? So you think you know?
Some of us have a preconceived notion based on our own experiences. My experiences started early and started strong. It was the late 60’s or early 70’s. I was a young child. My mother had meetings in the house; women’s meetings, League of Women’s Voters and ERA and PTA and what else I don’t know if I ever knew or asked. But there were powerful memories of powerful women walking with such confidence through my front door with broad smiles, clear eyes, always I remember their eyes, looking down at me with a twinkle and a wink as wonderful as Peter Pan only real and quite large.
I was on the worn and faded Persian rug that defined the dark wood entrance, rolling back like a dog on scratchy wool and dark jewel colors, looking up at these women, my goddesses. I did not believe in Cinderella or want to be a fairy princess. (Peter Pan? Perhaps.) Although I have no idea what they were there to meet about, I was certain then that these women defined power, strength, wisdom, and goodness. They were my role models and heroes. They defined what I would strive to be.
They were women, all women, sturdy and tall and old and wise, or so they seemed from my little-girl-on-the-rug point of view. And I remember looking up at these solid women with those clear eyes that would look me back directly, their short trimmed hair framing broad faces devoid of most makeup except the true red lipstick which was so common back then. They wore thick wool skirts to the middle of the knee, or at least that is what it looked like from down there on the rug. Pantyhose, medium tan nylon that felt smooth and rubbery when I’d reach out to touch them. And sensible shoes. Always sensible shoes. Black or brown and low heels so you knew if you tried to run, they could still catch you. A fact that instilled both fear and safety to the observer.
They were giants from my horizontal perception and at once I felt secure and wanted to be like them.
Funny the things we remember.
That is how my feminist roots were formed.
But look at me now. I am not like they were. I am married and bake bread and am helping to get my son ready for college. Tell me, why do you suppose I thought they did not?
Somehow I still feel so different from them. I do not go to meetings. I run my own small business from home. I have long hair and wear a size one and cowboy boots…. Does this make me less of a feminist than they were?
Of course it is not in my appearance, but in my thoughts. That’s where the problem lays, the problem of uncertainty of the state of my feminism.
Here I am at almost 45 (doesn’t that sound more definitive that 44?) trying to call myself a feminist, but doubting myself. Why? Well, what have I done to prove I am? I don’t have to organize, work together and fight for our rights as they did. Or do I?
I seek to define a feminist so that I can find my own place and hopefully clarify who I am. Don’t we all need to do that to some degree? Of course what I am hoping to find is that I am indeed a feminist. I can be defined. I belong.
To begin with, I ask myself, and I suppose you should ask yourself too, what is the average feminist? I suppose she is something different for each of us, as long as it includes a strong woman with a sense of self. A good deal of which is based upon the impressions we formed as a child, and throughout our lives. Many of us painted a picture of what a feminist looks like, acts like, is.
What is she? Who is she?
I say again: a strong woman with a sense of self. Wavering at times, or so I am learning, as we still are human, and I have yet to meet one who can stand up against it all. But she has the ability to stand tall when need be, when she really needs to, when it really matters. For her children, her partner, her work, her beliefs, her choices, her country, her self.
Is that enough to define what a feminist is? I can define her how I choose, I suppose, since I don’t see many from my generation telling me otherwise. Us forty-somethingers. We are a quiet group. We consider ourselves feminists and benefit from the work of others and reach out just a little bit to pave new roads for those who come after, but the formula is ever changing, as is the definition. Rather than staying focused on the single goal ahead, be it equal rights, equal pay, or opened doors, we simply slide into place at the board or kitchen table (or both) and assume we are welcome, and wonder why we may get sideways glances from the men – and women – seated beside us.
Without those meetings I remember as I child to clarify the image in my own thoughts, I wonder what happened to feminism? Where is it now? It spread out. It became mainstream. That’s good and that’s bad. Good because maybe it means it is everywhere and so common we don’t even notice it is there any more. Bad because we take it for granted now and no longer fight for it. We risk letting it slip away.
So I find myself grasping to ensure I don’t lose what others fought so hard to give me, and wonder if I am doing enough for those who come after. What can I do? Start by thinking, as I am doing here and now. Considering my place. Defining feminism and my place, my role. Start by understanding who I am as a woman and what am I willing to do to retain my rights, my choices, my place.
Now is the time for me to consider this as I approach losing my definition of “mother” next year when my only child heads off for college. Where does that leave me? I seek self definitions. I feel lost without. What words will suit me? Forty-five. Middle aged. Married. I need more. How do I define myself now?
I begin by defining where I am. I am softly settling into my middle years.
Next year I’ll turn forty five. I’m in the middle, I guess. The middle of my life, of the world around me, of the family I’ve raised and the grandchildren I await. My middle years.
I define myself as “in my forties.” Can I say “mid life?” I can, but do not. I’m still too young for that, I think. So where am I?
In between my friends who have grandchildren, great grandchildren and back pain and contemplate or enjoy retirement and are tired of the cold – and those who have little ones or no children at all, no career or land or marriages under their belt to feel the discomfort of the tightness a little bit of age brings. Just a little bit. I still feel as fit as when I was twenty. Maybe more so. But I no longer want to wear the tight jeans and short skirts. I’m learning to dress like a woman. More simple. More refined. Classier, my mother says. Finally…
Who teaches us these things? Do we have role models that show us how to define “growing up” and “middle aged?” And if so, who would our role models be? Believe me, I don’t strive to look like those ladies who came to meetings in my mother’s house back in 1972.
And yet at times I am left feeling lost. I imagine I am not the only one. I’m starting to think I am part of or the product of a lost generation, or perhaps a mere sub generation. It is hard to define. I do not feel we are defining ourselves.
We are in between the baby boomers now in their fifties and sixties, and the slackers or millennium generation in their twenties and thirties. They have definitions. They can fit in and belong. Stereotypes, I’m sure, but such are generational classifications. They still provide us comfort with an all-purpose understanding, a simplicity of what might otherwise be left constantly ambiguous. Such labels allow us a solid sense for belonging or separating, depending on which we choose.
What defines us in our forties? What is our pigeonhole? We had no wide spread childhood traumas, connecting wars or colliding rebellion. We were neither dirt poor nor spoiled rotten. We listened to southern rock or disco and the five o’clock news and nothing was very radical or exciting but nor did we complain. We were rather quiet. What did we stand for, and what did we fight for? What have we given up as we approach and settle into our middle years?
And where are we now? Betwixt and between. Somewhat solid though I wonder if maybe we are led to believe we never will be.
Interesting to consider.
And as women in this sub generation, we are even more difficult to define. We do not have boundaries, do not share boundaries, are scattered and separate and do not have our center hold. We never thought we needed strength in numbers so we spread ourselves thin. Thin relationships, thin memories, thin ambitions and dreams.
Those before us fought for their place. Those after us assumed their place was solid. We saw both sides and know what both feel like just a little bit – the insecurity and confrontation and the expectations and assumptions.
My sub generation didn’t have to fight for it. We were handed it, fresh and new and exciting. We took it for granted. Sat back and enjoyed it. We were allowed to choose what we wanted to do with it. Most of us, the daughters of the women who fought to give us the choice, chose to be mothers and wives and maybe take a career or leave it when our children or husbands needed us. And I still don’t know if this is not perhaps the stronger choice a woman can make, or the weakest.
I am lost. I seek to find my place. In desperation, I softly moan and hope to be heard. Heaven forbid I stand up and scream out. But what I say is the same. It is a cry to my feminist roots.
Are we still sisters?
Is feminism still alive and well or is my generation letting it slip away?
What about those that follow me/us? The young ones. It is done for them. The women are equal, aren’t they? Or are they? It appears they have nothing left to fight for, and so they don’t. Perhaps their struggles now are not based on the male/female rift, but on the economy, work ethic, education, a continually expanding urban and global work force.
I suppose we all have our challenges. What I once felt I would have to fight for perhaps has already been fought. That battle won. Now I have others to fight, if I dare be so bold. And now I should pay my due respects.
So here’s to that giant of a woman when I was a little girl on the rug. That one with the sensible shoes and cropped hair and very bold, bright Peter Pan eyes. Thank you. I may not look like you, but today, I feel like you.
A portrait of a feminist today. This one wearing cowboy boots instead of sensible shoes. Photo by Bob Getz.
Stripped stark
Barren trees
Allow more light to penetrate
An insatiable hunger for the withering warmth
Mid day light diffused by the soft sky overcast
It is only a matter of time before the snow settles in for the season
White world we know here for half our days
Until then longer shadows leave a vague pattern
As if something man made like an endless cattle guard
On the edge of the dying meadow
The thermometer has risen to twenty. I postpone a longer walk and return quickly from feeding the horses, the dog from chasing off the magpies. I am not yet used to the cold, too soft, still holding on tight to summer ways of forgoing long johns and tall boots. The cold has barely begun.
Horses at the water trough pawing through the ice.
The doves are down to four. I see them now settled on the fence by the one big Blue Spruce that provides protection. There is literally a pile of assorted small birds behind the house, all having been run into the windows. Even the cats can’t claim responsibility. The falcon flies by and creates another fury and another bang on the window. A feather and dusty impression of wings remain before me. A clear, hard wall one can barely see. The crystals I hung in every window have not helped.
The little dark mare turns from the water and snorts. I see water dribbling from her muzzle like a silver spray of shining beads, as she stand tight , tall, alert, neck and tail high and ears forward. The language of the horse. The moose is again in the willows. Or at least, that is what she fears.
The wind rouses, rips up the remaining thin brown leaves of the bush. No lurking sent is stirred. The little mare lowers her head, relaxes her back and slowly returns to the herd.
A great horseman once told me that to learn to be a great horsewoman, all I needed to do was listen to the horse. They have all the answers I seek, he said. His wife reminded us both that this theory only works AFTER one has learned the language of the horse, and not all of us were “lucky” enough to be born into a world of great horsemen as our parents and peers to pass on such information. A disadvantage on one hand. I had to learn it all from scratch. An advantage on the other, for we learn to speak ourselves, with our own voice and manners. After the magnitude of mistakes levels out, we are left with an understanding that is ours, between the horse and me, built from the ground up like a stone castle. This is more solid, strong and real than if it was handed to me. That is at least what I tell myself. Might as well. I cannot change how nor where I was born and raised.
Not everyone is lucky enough to be born where they belong later in life. I say that on one hand yet I have heard to those that say there is a great burden that comes with “being born into…” Or are we the lucky who have the blank canvas before us and paint the picture as we will?
No matter. We can choose who, what and where we are. And we can change it all too.
Can’t we?
Wind strips away the last of the leaves and sucks the heat of the woodstove out from between cracks in the log walls before warming the room. The wind chimes rattle ceaselessly on the back porch. Bare branches wave wildly as if saying their final farewell.
I sit in the cabin and stare outside at the browning hillside. Flocks of geese on the Reservoir flats joining up to prepare their journey southward as the tourists already have done. Those of us that remain prepare for departure or hibernation. I will do the latter.
“The feast before the famine…” Or so the saying goes. But this feast is bittersweet.
Now is the season of birds of prey.
In the sharp shadows of early morning, from the kitchen window I watch a falcon fly through the flock of mourning doves. They are slow. He is agile. A fascinating combination, confrontation, obvious he will be victorious, and of little surprise when after I count one less dove scratching at the seed by the hay shed.
Late afternoon looking out the same window. High above the field the Red Tail hawk dances in the middle of a whirlwind of what appears to be golden birds, whirling, swirling, fluttering, flickering in the lowering light. At first I think he flies among tiny birds, a flock larger than I’ve ever seen here and strain my eyes to identify. But it is only freshly fallen leaves caught up in the twisting air, a wild dance of nature, the bird of prey participates in what seems like a joyous display of fervor and wind.
So the season blows away, leaving the last of the orange leaves to glow like rare pale sentinels in the high hills, while the rest of the mountain fades to grey, silent and peaceful as a monk under a heavy hood. At once comforted and burdened by the weight.
It is time for me to withdraw. To give in to the brown and grey and barren wind. To write. I begin with letters I have put off for months.
From a letter written earlier this week to a friend who probably wished he never asked:
This will more than likely be way too long and rambling, or way too short and say only a fraction of what I want to say.
I’ve been going through an odd adjustment with Bob working in town a few days a week, Forrest off to college and trying to figure what his future holds, and myself trying to find more of my own self through work and business or lack there of. Not a big deal, just little life changes. And too much time to think. At this stage in the game, I should be doing more than thinking. Giving more than taking. I’ll figure it out. Just an adjustment period.
Where to begin?
I’d like to begin with the financial matters we first discussed back in August, I believe it was. Crazy the power money holds over us, even when we try to live so simply. I appreciate you sharing a bit of your story. Your honesty and openness have always been refreshing, though a harsh reality at times. You are right about the burden debt holds over us. Walking away (though of course I know, walking away still brings a tangled thread dragging behind) for us is not an option at this point. We are oddly in a state of having to wait it out. Let me explain.
Our debt is created by having to fight for ownership of part of this land, the part with the cabins and business my husband built, separating him from the “Evil In-Laws,” the part of the family that fought all the rest of us for no better reason than because they could, to stir the waters, or because conflict and confrontation are a way of life for them. Fighting to own what we have worked for was worth it on principle alone, though a hard fight, and a personal struggle, as family matters, you know, often are.
Fighting for ones land does one of two things. It can turn you off and chase you away, or draw you closer like a mother and child. For us, it has been the latter. Only at times I know not if I am the mother to or child of this beautiful land. I have only learned it does not matter. We are connected now by blood, the blood I have shed upon this land, as sweet and rich, wet and warm as my tears.
But alas, “moving on” is this odd carrot before my nose. I grab but can never reach. I know it will happen. At least, most days, I know. Other days, I wonder.
And what does “moving on” entail? For moving on does not always mean a physical move. What it can mean is staying right where you are… only you are changed.
Here is everything my husband ever worked for, and what I have helped build and gave all I could for the past eleven years. It is not a miserable place to be, just rather “status quo.” I prefer change, growth, adventure. My insatiable curiosity for what lies over the next peak of the mountain drives me. I just want to live life as full as I can, in my own quiet way.
But what can I do? What skills do I have now besides running a little business, raising animals (and a child), cooking, cleaning, riding, training, gardening… nothing of value in today’s world. I am lost.
We’re not operating the guest ranch in the same capacity we were, and we’re not outfitting any more. This is hard because I so love horses and riding and even sharing the knowledge and experiences. And both Bob and I have considered working with horses as such an integral part of our identity. We are still relying on our horses for work at the ditch, which involves riding and packing into Wilderness, back and forth, for 20 – 30 days per summer; and using the horse for dirt work. But it’s not the same, and not quite enough for me. So I’ve been compensating by doing these big, extreme, crazy rides trying to fulfill my horse time, miles, and unsaturated soul. It’s almost addictive. How hard/far/long/challenging a ride can I do today? And then return home grateful to have survived.
Horse time is almost over here. As soon as the snow begins to fly, and the north sides of the slopes and in the trees begin to ice up, it’s over. It will be soon.
And still, fun as it is, it is not enough. One can only “play” so much, enjoy ones down time so much. That point and purpose, direction, meaning I’m longing for is still so far away. I am no closer today than I was yesterday. Or is this a path I cannot see, and shall I wake one day and find myself… there?
Once again, you see I have foregone short and sweet and tended towards long and drawn out. Stay with me if you’d like. I will be here, and I will share. Though the season of withdrawing and crawling deep inside the cave is coming. And I intend to use that time well and wisely…
And what can one do but await winter?
Sometimes depression isn’t chemical, isn’t disease, isn’t moods. It’s a result of circumstances.
Sometimes we have bad days, we go through hard times. Don’t ask me to smile and get over it. I need to be mad and sad for a little while. I dare say I’ll “get over it” when I’m good and ready. I’m not ready today.
What is so wrong with saying I’m bummed out and it’s got to me?
What’s a girl to do?
Saddle up and ride, I say.
Maybe that’s shallow. But it works. At least for a little while.
Yesterday the dog chased the coyote across our pasture and onto the neighbors’ field. A big no-no. All I saw was a little silver coyote about a quarter mile away, followed by Gunnar, full speed ahead. Two streaming bullets heading straight for the trees. Then I could see no more. But I could hear. And hear I did. It wasn’t hard to figure where those two went. Right into a pack of screaming wiener dogs being walked by a woman barking louder than all those dogs put together. I cringed. The neighbors up for the weekend, enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll. Oops. I called. Like he was going to leave all that crazy commotion and come to me.
The visual was a good one though, imagining coyote bait scattering wildly in all directions as the coyote runs right past, having better things to do than grab a quick meal with my mad dog at his heels. Really, I know, I should have gone next door to apologize for the ruckus my dog caused, but it is way too late for that. These are my in-laws, and I’m the out-law. We haven’t spoken in years, and if there was a time for apologies, I think it would have been long ago. So I look at this as giving them one more reason to hate me. Add it to their long list.
Next thing you know, there is the little Bull Moose (“little” being a relative term, of course) stepping over the field fence and stirring up the horses. And I know the dog wants to chase this guy off too. What a helper. But the thought of the Bull Moose heading toward the pack of wiener dogs is a bit much, so I keep the dog on leash which makes working around the ranch a real drag.
And I confess, I had already awoken in a bad mood.
Enough.
(pause)
And then I’m out there. Out on the trail on the back of a horse. Heading higher, always higher. Leaving it all behind. The dog behaving well following the two horses. One I’m riding. My silly little Arab, Flying Crow. The other I’m leading along, his partner and my best mare, Tres. The more we ascend, the more the trail opens, the view expands, the leaves have left the trees. There is my yellow brick road. I am on it. Following where it may lead me, and right then and there, it didn’t matter where “there” may be.
The golden path before me, ascending to the silver sky. The clouds are building. Thunder over my shoulder. We ride on. I have my slicker tied onto the saddle. I drape the rains, reach behind me, and slip it on like a protective cocoon. Such a thin barrier against the elements of the Mighty Mountain. But enough. Just enough. Not too much. I don’t want to get soft. The rain and hail begin. An added interest, intrigue, challenge. A reminder of the harsh elements surrounding me. A reminder that I forgot my gloves. I lean forward and press my hands on my horse’s neck, scrunch my fingers into his mane. Who needs gloves when you have a warm beast below and beside you?
And for just a little while (yes, “little” is a relative term, but in this case, big enough) my mind is clear of the self created burden of my own thoughts that weigh so heavy at times, more from the value I give them than what you might think they deserve.
She crawls deeper into the cave
Back to where the light is muted and vision is vague
Awaiting total blackness to wash over like the blanket of deep night
And lies back upon the brittle rose branch
Still tangled in her hair
Grounded. And still so far away from where I want to be.
Forever longing. Is this the state of human nature?
Touching down on solid ground. Become a part of the elements. Return to soil.
Autumn. Falling into place. As if I intended it this way.
Dealing with the empty nest by filling it with six laying hens and a rooster just learning to crow.
The scratch and clang of yet another pack rat captured in the have-a-heart trap set under the front deck. The season of rodents is winding down. They all want to come in. How plentiful this year has been. Attracting the added bonus of hawks that have come to heed the call of this bountiful crop, fed full by the warmest, driest longest summer we remember. Or are our memories always painted more lush than reality was?
And now the coyote, mother and two pups, crossing out on pasture, undisturbed by the running horses. Mother drops below the horizon, while children linger, distracted by a tall patch of dried grass and the stirring within. They stop, arch, spring load, and pounce. Then scamper off to catch up with mother.
Mother, mentor, magician or priest. Someone show me the way when I am a little lost.
I write a friend and look for answers and only find more questions: I tell her there is some darkness that comes over me every fall. Perhaps the change of light. Not a real sadness for the loss of summer, for with that means the arrival of winter and the departure of many things I could do without, and that’s all good stuff. I don’t understand what it could be.
Except… human nature… reflective… wanting more…
Falling. Down. Chilling, clearing, washing away…
I do my best to fill the emptiness inside, lighten the inevitable darkening. I keep busy. There are always things to do. Laundry, bake, feed the horses, walk the dog, split wood, paper work. I want more.
Falling leaves. How quickly the trees let loose of their brilliant display, the grande finale, the dramatic completion.
To be replaced by what? Barren trees. Still hillside and silent winds. Dormancy and hibernation. The season of turning within.
I find myself sitting here doing nothing. There is nothing I have to do. I have never thought that was a healthy state. I prefer to keep busy, have a full plate, have things that have to be done, deadlines, a little bit of pressure, point and purpose, you know?
How lucky I am to be able to have nothing, you might say. But those are foolish words. For who is lucky who is not employed, not doing enough, not with direction and meaning to each day. I have never wanted ennui, abhor sloth, and fight them and the ensuing poverty that they carry with them as an added burden.
Get out and enjoy it, you say. The rain holds me back. I’ll find other excuses. One can’t keep going out “enjoying.” At some point, responsibilities and realities ruin the fun. I want to be productive, do something positive. Yes, even make the world a better place. Why not?
“I do not have a mansion,
I haven’t any land,
Not one paper dollar
To crinkle in my hand
But I can show you morning
From a thousand hills
And kiss you
And give you seven daffodils…”
(from an old folk song I once heard beautifully sung around a campfire I never was brave enough to sit near enough to warm my soul)
How simple can we be
Forever needing point and purpose
In this ever changing world
When some days change does not come when and where we look for it
The gears are stuck
We are left waiting
The jolt, release, exhilaration of letting go
Now what? We’ve fulfilled our calling in life of providing vacations, searching for something deeper, more meaningful.
Where is the yellow brick road hiding, or how far am I from finding the way?
The Grande Finale. Washing away in early morning rain. Giving in, giving up. Pacifying rain. Perhaps the last of its kind for the season. I listen to its placid song on the metal roof. Quieter now without the rustle of the leaves and their subtle refrain, now stripped from the trees and tangled in the dried brown grasses below.
Fallen leaves. Bare trees standing static. Awaiting.
Darker days, longer shadows, I prepare for the inevitable quieting of mountain and mind.
Yesterday’s deep, rich, ripe orange. A juicy peach full of fresh life and sweet promises. The color of the Aspen leaves before they let go. A hillside on fire now paling to grey. Where even the evergreens are no longer green. I will find a subtle beauty in this too, you know.
Swollen with a passion as brilliant as the fiery hillside before me, then accepting expiring flames, blowing out. We are left stark, silent, solitary, each of us on our own paling hillside.
(For a greater display of the brilliant fall color from earlier this season, please see: http://www.facebook.com/#!/media/set/?set=a.4184427821999.164195.1623616997&type=1 )
Heavy clouds holding in the mountain
Containment, wet and shallow
Not deep enough to drown
The rage of waves
Ocean lures
Stirs me
I wake
Tumbling
Upon the spine of the sleeping beast
Land of dormant fires
Awaiting the chance to ignite
And then it clears. Then it dries. We return to blue bird sky and say this is how it should be.
Twenty five degrees and a heavy frost this morning. The garden has turned to mush once again. Heck, it’s later than I expected, later than most years. I gather the bounty of my harvest. Three baby zucchini and a couple of green tomatoes. That’s it. More than most years. Yes, I know. A greenhouse goes on the south side of my next house…
Colors turning early yet cold arriving late. The Aspen begin their show, gaudy as fluorescent flashing lights. Dazed and dazzling.
A long season coming to an end.
I am as weary as the grass, browning, turned to seed, swaying in the rains, bent over with drops of raining clinging like children to their mothers dress.
Gin Getz 