"The turning of the year brings a change in the valley, as the first leaves begin to turn to gold and scarlet," wrote Gladys Taber from her seventeenth-century New England farmhouse and its lovely surroundings. "It is no longer the green, green world of summer. Suddenly one morning I look out and see the swamp maple ablaze. I feel the strangeness of nature all over again."
I awake early and drag my feet.
Today is the day that we officially close the summer house.
We drive along coastal roads under cobalt blue skies and overarching tunnels of leaves, vibrant in reds, yellows, greens and, unfortunately, crinkled browns.
I trace the coastline, attempting to memorize the picture before me of whirring white foam slamming the rocky shore.
When we arrive at the summer house, I turn on the switch for the water and climb the well-worn painted stairs. Mom removes the screen from the front door, and I head to the bedroom to lift and carry the heavy glass window.
Struggling to align the glass to fit in the slots, we finally give up and save that chore for my husband another day.
Next, we attempt to defrost the old refrigerator, but it seems to be frozen in place. We tug the freezer door to no avail, and I think I hear it chuckle.
Mom starts filling pans with water to boil and place inside the fridge. A half hour later with both of us pulling the handle as hard as we can, it opens.
We try to scrape off the ice in the freezer, but it is an unmovable mass.
No worries, we can fill more pans with boiling water. Mom turns on the faucet, and nothing drips from the tap.
After a harried call to my husband, who makes a harried call to the plumber, we give up.
I remove soft drinks and half-empty condiments from the fridge, as well as the leftover groceries still in the cabinets; and I carry them all to the car.
Exhausted, I lament the day's turn of events.
We bounce down the rutted, bumpy road, and I hear the sea gulls laughing.
