THIS TIME OF YEAR

THIS TIME OF YEAR
by Tom Foley

Autumn. This the time when Mother Nature really struts he stuff and stuns the eye with her vibrant array of perky colors. People from away will again flock into Maine by car or tour bus to appreciate this annual passage of fleeting beauty. They will ooh and ah as small cameras are brought to the ready to capture the images that will trigger a host of happy memories when viewed on those gray winter days ahead.

For me, other than the fact that the old maple trees outside my front door are about to dump an ocean of leaves in which I will soon be swimming the backstroke, autumn is a time of endings, but with its departure it leaves behind the promise of new beginnings. It is, also, a time when I tend to wax poetic.

I recently dusted off an early journal I kept, and while paging through I came across these recorded words about an autumn past:

It's late autumn, and the landscape yawns under a quilt of faded colors ... soon it will sleep. The leaves from many trees that danced capriciously to the whim of every breeze have either been raked, or left on the dance floor waiting to hear the music of another spring.

Cranky chain saws herald the coming of winter... hear them?

Smoke from chimney's smudge the wash of gray sky as folks stoke their wood stoves to chase the first chill from the house.The ritual never changes, a few sticks now, many sticks later.

We find ourselves talking more about the weather and squint at the sky trying to anticipate the first dusting of snow. It gets dark early now and the urge to be snug at home quickens as the workday winds down, " I'm outta here," is what I say.

Squat orange pumkins sit in repose it odd places like distant relatives do when they come to pay a surprise visit. Clusters of colorful Indian corn cling to posts and doors like giant caterpillars waiting to turn into butterflies.

They say that each season has its own beauty. I find that hard to believe when the world I love will soon be locked in ice. I guess I'm just being selfish. Some of my friends enjoy cross-country skiing or traveling over a network of snowmobile trails. Others, enjoy cutting holes in the ice and gaze glassy eyed at little red flags until darkness comes and swallows their fish traps.

I guess I'll just have to muckle through until the green buds appear on all those trees. I'll just say one good thing about snow... it hides a lot of leaves.