The treacherous California wildfires have subsided for now and despite still reeling from the recent catastrophes, we’ve had to shift gears to prepare for the impending fall and winter seasons. The bug out bag is stowed back in the garage. The firewood is covered and dry, the gutters are clean, and the wood stove flue is cleared. The mason jars filling the cupboards glisten with the jewel-toned rewards of harvest. All the gardening tools are oiled and stored, and I remembered to give the back-up generator some tlc. We just had a bit of a rainstorm and it came down hard and gusty, bringing all the finished pine needles and leaves with it. As I walk and marvel at the red and yellow maple leaves underfoot, it seems to me that the acorns have gone from green to brown overnight. Seasons don’t care about loss and devastation.
SEASONS DON’T CARE
A different kind of blaze is spreading throughout Nevada County right now, a blaze completely oblivious to the recent wildfires. It’s the richly-hued spread of maples, birch, ambers, and oaks, their leaves the result of receding chlorophyll, creating the splashing vibrancy of fall. Most days here are clear and sunny still, and the contrast of the blazing colors against the crystalline sky makes my heart skip a beat. The russets and yellows and scarlets are a balm to my tattered soul.
Many of my friends come to the Grass Valley/Nevada City area just once a year in June for the legendary Father’s Day Bluegrass Festival. Some of those folks have attended all 42-plus years of the festival but have never visited during any other time of year. I’m wondering if those same folks might like to visit about now to enjoy this cooler, reflective season, full of inspiration for moody bluegrass songs.
I grew up on a 160-acre ranch here that my dad still owns. This time of year, from the meadow, you can watch the surrounding landscape colors ebb and change. You can see for miles around as the season lays down her veils of autumnal splendor. In the mid-1800’s the ranch served as a larder for the miners in the area and still has massive black and English walnut trees, a towering persimmon, and smatterings of pear and plum trees, all planted by early settlers. The property was home to a blacksmith shop, a roof shingle shop, and supplied the miners with produce and mutton. In old photos you can see the three story farm house surrounded by an abundance of roses, some taller than a grown man. Many of our local varieties of nut and fruit trees, and roses, were brought here by the early settlers and miners. Our predecessors must have felt the same comfort I feel when the fall colors bring out some sort of primal quickening in the soul. They had to do the similar preparations for the coming weather, just as I do, and made sure their stores and root cellars were full. I believe they also experienced a sense of homecoming when they reaped their harvests from plants and trees grown from the seeds they brought from their homelands. I have to think they felt the same quickening when the first leaves turn and “the golden leaves begin to fall.” Seasons may not care about loss and devastation, but they do bring solace and hope.
Notes:
When the Golden Leaves Begin to Fall – Vassar Clemens with Peter Rowan https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2M30RRXC1qo
If you’d like to learn an interesting bit about the origin of our area’s fruits/nuts/etc., Google “Felix Gillet.” He’s known as the “father of perennial agriculture.”
