September stillness

Perhaps September is the most beautiful month by the sea.

Everything slows down.

There are few swimmers braving cooler waters.

Sailboats amble by, and hardy fishermen trawl, yearning for that one big tug.

Sauntering to the estuary, I find time stands still.

"Be still and know that I am God."

Surrounded by nature, soothed by the rhythm of waves, warmed by brilliant sunshine and fanned by gentle winds, one enters a portal to the Divine.

Labor Day litany

A Labor Day walk along the seashore reveals a change in season.

Remnants of Hurricane Harvey keep beach goers out of the water.

Getting their feet wet

Stonehenge? Scottish standing stones? Huge boulders point heavenward.

I imagine this is a spacecraft landing pad in an alien world, the estuary at low tide.

The line forms here.

"You water the mountains from your dwelling on high, the earth is fully satisfied by the fruit of your works. / You make grass grow for flocks and herds and plants to serve mankind; / You appointed the moon to mark the seasons, and the sun knows the time of its setting. / The sun rises, and man goes forth to his work and to his labor until the evening." (Psalms)

'Summer's lease hath all too short a date'

Sanderlings congregate at the water's edge.

There is a change in the air at the summer house. The sky is an intense blue, the sun warm on my shoulders, and the cool breeze oh so pleasant; but they signal the approach to the end of the season and prelude to winter.

“Summer’s lease hath all too short a date,” wrote William Shakespeare in Sonnet 18. My sentiments exactly.

Gladys Taber chronicled the passing of the season from the perch of her pre-Colonial farmhouse in rural Connecticut.

“I know fall is here, although the world is still green with summer,” she said. “And I feel an urgency to gather in all the loveliness of the past blazing days and star-cool nights and keep them forever.”

We grill hamburgers and eat them inside at the dining room table. They taste even better, if possible, than the ones we’ve enjoyed all season long because we know these simple feasts are numbered. My father is cold, and he shuts all the windows.

After lunch, my mother and I sit in the sun dappled by the old tree in the backyard. We chat and begin reading magazines, but before long we have goose bumps on our arms and return to the warmth of the house.

A short time later, however, we grow restless spending such a lovely day inside. We slip into our sweatshirts and head to the beach, but it no longer resembles the summer seashore. There is a new stone pathway that leads down to the water. Where there was sand, there is now a sea of stones stretching across the entire beach.

We sit on a flat-topped boulder and watch sanderlings in parties of ten to twelve run ahead of oncoming waves. These small, eight-inch members of the sandpiper family have a white head and underbelly and gray upper parts. Their bill is short, their back heavily spotted and the bend of their wing is black. They cluster together and move in tandem.

As I approach, I startle them; and they take to the air in unison landing farther down the beach. Then once again, on spindly legs they race in nature’s dance dodging the waves.

Sandpipers are such interesting creatures. Their mysterious comings and goings seem to me “much ado about nothing”, as they hop, lunge and fly about with nervous energy.

Yet I think that sometimes we long for the security of a sandpiper’s life, congregating together in groups, following the leader, choosing a seemingly happy, carefree existence.

“Most of us spend a lot of time seeking happiness and always feel that we shall achieve it magically,” wrote Taber. “If we are fortunate, we realize at some point in our search that we are taking the wrong path. Happiness is, in the end, an attitude of mind. It involves acceptance of reality and a warm appreciation of such simple things as a friend looking happy when we meet unexpectedly or the way the first star comes out at twilight.”

The day is waning, and the cool sea breeze biting. Yet I linger. I am content to watch the sanderlings in their habitat, weaving their magical dance.

Their stay is short. By October, they will be gone. It is rare to see them here in winter.

Summer slides into autumn

Dragging my feet, I find myself in the last weekend of summer. In all my memories of summer days spent at the summer house, I cannot recall a season of such perfect weather. It is the stuff of quintessential New England: cool sunny mornings, clear cloudless days with gentle breezes, brilliant rosy sunsets and comfortable evenings.

“Summer slides so gently into autumn … that it is easy to believe there will be no end,” said New England author Gladys Taber. “Day dreams toward twilight, skies are sapphire, the tide ebbs quietly. I begin to think time itself is arrested and the green leaves will stay forever on the trees. Gardens glow with color, with late roses and with carpets of zinnias and asters.”

Even though I am in denial, I detect the winds of change. A tinge of orange colors the maple leaves in the front yard. When I walk to the beach, I bring a sweatshirt. I can count the few fuchsia beach roses that still cling to the bushes.

Yet, despite my reluctance to move on, I admit that September offers a beautiful backdrop to my days. Now there is time to pause and truly admire the Creator’s handiwork.

This is my husband’s favorite fishing season. There is a plentiful supply of scup waiting to bite on clam necks, sandworms and squid; and bluefish race up and down the coast, chasing schools of prey. No bait required – casting or trolling with a lure will hook this silvery fish that can range up to 40 inches in length and weigh up to 20 pounds.

Dashing wildly within the schools of prey, the bluefish bite, cripple and kill the small fish that do not get eaten. Charting the course from above, flocks of seagulls follow the trail and splurge on leftovers.

From my perch on a boulder, I watch the fishermen in their powerboats crank up their engines in hot pursuit of the blues; while on shore, the anglers run up and down the beach following the path of screeching gulls and jumping fish.

Then by an unseen cue, the wind picks up; and I wrap my arms about me, lingering a little longer.

“Nature, however, sets her own time schedule,” said Taber. “She decides when the first white frost will come and when the geese go over and when the leaves will begin to drift down and when the hibernating small animals will feel the urge to snug down in their burrows.”

With my hair whipping wildly in the wind, I slowly amble back to the summer house for a cup of tea.

A horse of a different color

Gail and her dappled gray miniature horse, Eli, at Sapowet Marsh.

The season at the summer house always seems too short, and we drag our feet into September, trying to hold onto summer.

Yet, autumn in New England offers the most beautiful scenic views of the seashore, along with spectacular weather.

Shakespeare used the phrase, “Beauty too rich for use,” and while that was Romeo’s apt description of Juliet; it also applies to nature, especially at this time of year.

Poet John James Piatt best described these four colorful weeks: “September – / The beautiful apples, so golden and mellow / They will fall at a kiss of the breeze, / While it breathes through the foliage frosty and yellow / And the sunshine is filling the trees!”

Donning sweatshirts, my mother and I steal away from the Red Sox game and head down to the beach.

Unlike the haze that usually hangs over the seashore and is the namesake of Fogland Beach, clear bright sunshine and cool breezes await us at the water’s edge.

Peering upriver, we are offered an unobstructed southerly view of the Sakonnet Lighthouse at the mouth of the bay.

We sit on large stones and watch the wild waves, as well as an occasional sailboat zip by.

There are few beach-goers now, and it is just us and the wildlife, basking in the sun.

Seagulls soar or congregate in bunches, their snowy white feathers rustling in the wind.

Later, my husband and I take the coastal route home, following the Sakonnet downriver by the Sapowet Marsh Wildlife Preserve.

I expect to see seabirds and jumping bluefish or perhaps a dog or two, but today I spot a horse.

We park the Ram, and with camera in hand I jump into the sand, where I have the good fortune to meet Gail and her dappled gray, Eli.  

Miniature horses are the size of a very small pony and are usually less than 35 inches tall. Retaining the various colors and coat patterns of their breed, they are generally quite hardy, often living longer on average than some full-sized horse breeds. The average life span of miniature horses is from 25 to 35 years.

Friendly and interacting well with people, they are companion animals and are often kept as family pets.

Petting Eli’s mane, I marvel at the beauty of this docile, dappled creature that likes to kick up his heels in the sand.

You never know what you might find at the seashore: a bit of sea glass, a scallop shell or maybe a horse of a different color.

September song

A rainy Saturday morning during the last week of summer offers ample time to ponder.

September is one of the loveliest months of the year at our Fogland summer house by the sea, but it heralds a time of radical change.

Nineteenth-century New England poet Thomas Bailey Aldrich wrote:

“The summer comes and the summer goes; / Wild-flowers are fringing the dusty lanes, / The swallows go darting through fragrant rains, / Then, all of a sudden – it snows.”

The light is crystal clear most September mornings, instead of muted by August’s early morning haze and blankets of fog. The wind is still warm, but there is a nip in the air.

I walk the beach in late afternoon wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. There are occasional swimmers and sunbathers, but most folks are content to just sightsee or search for sea glass at low tide.

Sailboats and powerboats dot the Sakonnet, skimming the waters and dodging windsurfers, buoys and lobster pots. A fleet of fishing boats is anchored in the bay.

This is my husband’s favorite fishing season. There is a plentiful supply of scup waiting to bite on clam necks, sandworms and squid; and bluefish race up and down the coast, chasing schools of prey. No bait required – casting or trolling with a lure will hook this silvery fish that can range up to 40 inches in length and weigh up to 20 pounds.

Dashing wildly within the schools of prey, the bluefish bite, cripple and kill the small fish that do not get eaten. Charting the course from above, flocks of seagulls follow the trail and splurge on leftovers.

From my perch on a boulder, I watch the fishermen in their powerboats crank up their engines in hot pursuit of the blues; while on shore, the anglers run up and down the beach following the path of screeching gulls and jumping fish.

Back at the summer place, I no longer seek shelter from the hot sun under the shade of the maple tree. I sit in the sunshine until it becomes too cold and uncomfortable, then I reluctantly go inside.   

I know that from now on the days are numbered.

“As summer wanes, we cherish every mild dreamy day,” wrote Gladys Taber, who chronicled her days from Still Cove on Cape Cod. “I love the soft blue haze, I know summer still walks the lanes, but the frosty slipper of autumn is just behind.”