On the way to French class this morning, I saw a student-age woman taking a picture of the maple tree on the southwest corner of Plymouth Road and Huron Parkway. She was not the first person I’ve seen photographing that tree. It’s a maple and, particularly in its orange glory at the height of autumn, it’s quite the looker. It’s not the most noteworthy tree in Tree Town, of course. I suspect it is so often photographed in no small part because it stands at a busy corner where pedestrians must often pause and wait for the traffic light to change and allow them to continue on their way.
Maples in general are the scene stealers at this time of year. Locust trees may turn sooner than maples, but they turn a muted yellow, then the leaves fall off. Nice, but not showy. Maples are showy. They turn an achingly golden yellow or orange or scarlet, or combinations thereof. A maple in Ann Arbor Hills turns Crayola-crayon red on an annual basis.
My sister Carol reports that a maple tree in her area gets photographed a lot. Really a lot. She lives in Upper Lower—the part of Michigan at the top of the Lower Peninsula. The tree stands next to a state road. It has a beautiful shape and turns orange in the fall. People count on it. They plan senior pictures and wedding pictures and family reunion pictures with it. Sometimes, she says, there’s a line of people waiting to take pictures there.
Carol was driving up to the tree as we talked. It was as gorgeous as in years past. “There’s a family there now, taking pictures,” she told me, “and another group’s just pulling up.”
Someone pulled their vehicle up next to the dog and me, one morning this week, a man in a pickup. I was still on our court, where all the vehicles are familiar. This was not a neighbor, and it is rarely a good thing for a woman when a strange man pulls up next to her. I was planning evasive maneuvers when the man stopped next to me and rolled down his window. At least he was staying in the truck.
He grinned a friendly grin and said, “Aren’t you the cutest little pile of dryer lint?” The man meant me no harm; he just wanted to compliment the dog, who, come to think of it, bears more than a passing resemblance to a pile of dryer lint. If men understood what dread they create when they pull their vehicles up next to women walking alone, I have to believe they wouldn’t do it.
Wednesday’s dog walk included another sort of adventure, also before we were out of the court. I had my arms full of items to take to the curb, and managed to drop Rascal’s leash as soon as we left the house. As far as I can tell, he never noticed. He stepped out smartly on the route we take most often, tail up and eyes bright. Looking, in fact, the way he looks every morning as we venture off together.
It took me a moment to drop my items in the wheelie bin, so he got a good head start. I avoided running, as I didn’t want him to start running. And, while I was gaining on him, he remained a house or so ahead. Fortunately, a neighbor was just coming back from walking her kids to elementary school, and sized up the situation immediately. She crossed the street to approach Rascal from the front and greeted him cheerfully.
“Hi, buddy!” she said. Sure enough, Rascal stopped.
“Thank you!” I replied, grabbing the end of the leash.
“It looked like he was taking himself for a walk,” Rebecca said. “He knew which way to go and stayed on the sidewalk.” That’s my boy, a real self-starter.
An herb took its own initiative during dinner prep one night this week. When I shook some rosemary into a colorful autumn stew, the lid came off the jar, dumping most of a jarful of rosemary into the pan. “Aaaaa!” I cried, articulately. My sweetheart found the situation humorous and offered no aid. Thus did I find myself using a flat, slotted spatula to bail rosemary out of the pan. Not much caring where it went, I dumped rosemary over the side and onto the stovetop. It formed fragrant haystacks. It drifted. It has subsequently tracked throughout the house like Christmas tree needles lingering long after the rest of the tree. Rosemary for remembrance, indeed. That dinner will take some time to forget.
18 October 2024