Burnished

     Leaves are starting to turn, now that it’s mid-October.  Locust leaves, small and golden, are the first ones to fall.  That honor used to go to the ash trees so prevalent around here, but emerald ash borers killed them all, and locusts now lead the way.  Their leaves sprinkle lawns with color, and collect and skitter at the edges of sidewalks and streets.  The allee of honey locusts along Green Road, pleasant in all seasons, is drifted now with gold.

     Other trees are coloring, too.  Oaks that turn golden in the fall are doing so, leaves edged in bronze.   Maples that will be red are pinking up.  Euonymous, quince, and sumac are firing up their scarlet, and grape vines are cascades of yellow.  Mums in the neighborhood are radiant, colors glowing as if lit from within.  Trees, flowers, sidewalks, ground–the whole area seems burnished.  There’s a luster to this part of autumn.  Colors aren’t yet brilliant, but brilliant is coming.

     Sue and Tesla and I visited Bird Hills Nature Area this week.  At almost a hundred and fifty acres, it’s the largest park in town:  hilly, forested, with paths throughout and glimpses of the river.  The day we walked there, the park was full of mushrooms.  My favorites were a big, honey-colored cluster on a tree.  Some on the ground with bold red tops that split and curved upward.  And white ones that looked like tiny polka dots on the forest floor.  The mushrooms were ephemeral treats of color.     

     My husband and I received a gift of wood poppies.  Cory and Tanya left two boxes of them on our porch one morning, a most welcome donation from their friend Arthur who has a sufficiency of the wildflowers.  I knew where I wanted them to go, but lilies of the valley, interspersed with buckthorn and covered over with piles of twigs and sticks, already occupied the space.

     I set to work moving the twigs and sticks and, in doing so, noticed that rabbits have been at the hostas.  The plants were fine last week, and now they’re not.  Whole leaves have even been bitten off and left uneaten, as if the rabbits’ eyes were bigger than their stomachs when they cruised the hosta cafeteria line.  Thank goodness the critters don’t eat wood poppies.

     Next up was digging lilies of the valley—one and two and three at a time–carrying them to new sites in the garden, and tucking them in.  That area under the linden tree used to be a haven for birds, full of mature bushes for cover and nesting sites.  It became, however, a victim of its own success.  The linden continued to grow, its branches sweeping nearly to the ground.  Plantings that had been happy when they had more light became less so and died.  Deer had their way with the rest.  So now we’re trying to find plants that thrive in shade and don’t look like food to deer and rabbits. 

     I had just arrived at the first buckthorn–that invasive scourge–when Cory showed up to help.  Woohoo!  And just in time to tackle that buckthorn!  He came back with a thinnish, very long shovel, stepped on it once, and sank it deep into the dirt by the buckthorn.  Three more steps on that shovel was all it took Cory to pop the buckthorn out of the ground.  It would have taken me at least half an hour to do that. I expected the whole clear-and-transplant-and-plant effort to take me three days.

     Not long after Cory started work, Tanya joined us.  Double woohoo!  Pretty soon, we had a system.  Cory dug up, Tanya transported, I planted.  With the three of us working, we were ready for the wood poppies in no time.  Tanya and I decided on placement, she and Cory planted, and the project was done.  My word, what a lot we accomplished!

     Our dear neighbors devoted a perfect autumn afternoon to hot, sweaty, muddy work in our back yard.  And this gift of flowers, muscle, and time is only the most recent example of their generosity in sharing their lives with us.  Our friendship has deepened over the years since they moved in.  At this point, it feels polished to a sheen.  It feels burnished. 

15 October 2021           

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