Closing Up Shop

Autumn landed on the doorstep with a resounding thud a week or so ago with temperatures dropping to near-freezing. But then this is New England, and within the span of a day and a half, the sun had returned, the days were balmy, and the nights mild once again. But not all was jolly in Garden Land.

My Coleus plants had bitten the dust overnight, as did the Morning Glory and Scarlet Runner Bean vines. At first glance the Moonflowers seemed to have survived, although my hopes that buds, which had been threatening to open for weeks, might actually advance into creamy white blossoms have been growing dimmer by the day. Ah well.

I have learned, to my chagrin and my garden's peril, that it's unwise to think I can stay one step ahead of a hard New England frost. So despite the return of these temperate October days, winter's brief and jolting preview was enough of a warning for me, thank you very much.

As a result, I've been busying myself with tasks that herald the end of all that is green and growing.


I pruned the basil and brought the stems indoors to dry for winter soups and stews.

I removed the screens from the verandah windows—always a sad as well as daunting task, given its resemblance to wing-walking—and replaced them with the storm windows.

Into the verandah's more temperate environment is where the potted herbs will remain for the next few weeks, standing shoulder to shoulder along the ledge to catch the sun's rays as they pour in from the East each morning. Come winter, they will be moved into the sunniest of the kitchen windows, but for now they participate in this charade of being "outside".  (I really don't have the heart to tell them otherwise....)



The storm windows in the cottage were lowered, and the boiler was drained in anticipation of having to turn it on once the nights become too brisk for simply another blanket, shawl or pair of socks.




The fireplace was emptied of its collection of cast-off bird nests and haphazardly arranged birch bracken, making way for blazing fires on chily nights. The first fire of the season is one of my favorite Autumn rituals. I love the scent of woodsmoke on the air when I step outside and the warmth that circulates throughout the parlor as the flames lick over the crackling logs.

As for the rest of the garden, I'll be spending the coming days tidying up: pulling up wilted plants, raking leaves and distributing them over flower beds, stowing the garden chairs, tables, wind chimes, plant stands, and trellises away.

And then there's the rain barrel, which is currently filled to overflowing with the bounty of several Autumnal rainstorms. There were many days in mid-August when I would have paid a princely sum for even a fraction of the water that rests there now!  But since the barrel is plastic it has to be emptied and put into the shed to winter over so the seams don't burst. Sadly, this necessitates turning on the spigot and watching as this watery treasure runs out into garden beds that are already a bit sodden. It happens every year but I am always just as heartsick each time.  (And I will think back to this moment on some parched afternoon next August, I'm sure....)

".. summer gathers up her robes of glory and, like a dream, glides away."— Sarah Helen Whitman

Jefferson once said, "But though an old man, I am but a young gardener." I, too, have much to learn despite the amount of soil I have dug under my nails over the years.  But it's the process I adore, and no matter how much time passes I do love these trials and lessons. It is the most humbling of activities, second only to rearing children or trying to read from a knitting chart.

His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet

During the month of October the Dalai Lama has been touring New England, speaking to enormous crowds in Vermont, New York, Rhode Island and Massachusetts.  His message of peace, ethics, healing, happiness, and compassion comes at a time when these attributes seem sorely needed in the world. And not only in the wider global community, but in our own personal communities. Indeed, lacking even in our own interior lives sometimes.

I was blessed to be one of the thousands to hear him speak on this tour.  Simply being in his presence was a gift beyond measure. He is a beatific entity, and yet so grounded to the earth with his warmth and mirth.  The sound of his voice, the message of contentment in his words that passed through his heart and mind into ours, was a remarkable and transcendent experience.

His lessons were so simple.

Be happy. Be compassionate. Do not cause problems for others.  

A simplicity that chastened the heart and yet buoyed it with hope. 

I have been asked what it was like. Being near him, hearing him,

absorbing his kindness and wisdom.  

 It was like climbing into the lap of God... whoever your god might be.

Namaste, Your Holiness.

Favorite Thing No. 12b

One of my favorite things is placing colored glass in windows in place of curtains.
In each of my kitchen windows there are bottles, plates or other glass items
resting along the sills or suspended from fishing line, catching and reflecting the light.

 

There is green and amber glass in the window over the sink.

Cobalt blue and red glass fills the ledge of the window over the small built-in desk,

with pale green and amethyst glass along the upper window legde. 

And soft honey-yellow glass fills the window that overlooks my garden patio.  

On the stairwell, there is a reproduction "Tiffany" panel that nearly fills the window,

as well as several pieces of amber glass. And so it is throughout the cottage:

A disk of stained glass, depicting a Monet painting, in the downstairs powder room,

as well as a fragment of stained glass from a dismantled church window,

and several vintage cobalt medicine jars.

An oval disk of a Tiffany waterfall in the upstairs hallway window,

with hobnail blue glass along the ledge.

 

 And a series of crystal chandelier prisms in the upstairs bathroom,

refracting the sunlight into a quivering dance of rainbows on the walls.

I love watching the colorful glass filter sunlight by day,

or the glow of streetlamps and full moons by night.

On the bedroom windows there are bamboo shades and light voile panels, for privacy.

But wherever I can, I love filling windows with colored glass.

Look out the window at Claudia's FAVORITE THINGS...

Land o' Cakes, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's

A friend recently came by to visit and was kind enough to bring me

a souvenir from her journey to Ayrshire—the birthplace of Scottish poet Robert Burns.

 It is a cloth-bound volume of his complete poems and songs.

The silken cover is Royal Stewart tartan.

 In addition to the wealth of delicious poetry that awaits me within its leaves,
the book is also filled with lovely images of Burns
and remarkable photos of the various places associated with him.

It also has poignant images of the people who inspired his verses,

such as his wife, Jean Armour—"the Belle of Mauchline".

Scotland has always held a soft spot in my heart.

While I have never been to Ayrshire, which is on the west coast of Scotland,

I was lucky enough to visit the east coast, staying for a time in the city of St. Andrews.
The journey by rail from Glasgow to Dundee took me through a landscape
that was very reminiscent of New England—
towering fir trees, a craggy coastline to the east, and blustery unpredictable weather.

 Once I'd arrived in St. Andrews, the castle ruins were evocative
of all I'd imagined Scotland to be since I was a small child.

 Scotland meant racing through the heather with Alan Breck in Kidnapped...

 ....or escaping by the skin of my teeth with David Balfour in Catriona.
(Both by R. L. Stevenson.)

During my stay in St. Andrews I climbed St. Rule's tower to look out over the Bay,
and then wandered through the cemetery that surrounds the long-demolished Cathedral.
 I was also lucky enough to stroll along East Sands, the band of beach which skirts the town.
(West Sands, on the other side of town, is famous for the opening scene in Chariots of Fire.)

  
And now I have this lovely book to add to my own souvenirs,
as a reminder of a place that for me is a magical fusion
of poetry, deposed Queens, and story book heroes.

"No one in Scotland can escape from the past.
It is everywhere, haunting like a ghost.

To a Scot, the past clings like sand to wet feet,
and is carried about as a burden.
The many ghosts are always a part of them, inescapable."
—Geddes MacGregor