The strangeness of nature

 

"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. 

Sunday best

 

Driving along country roads on a fall October day, I feel blessed to be a New Englander.

“The Summer comes and the Summer goes; / Wild-flowers are fringing the dusty lanes, / The swallows go darting through the fragrant rains, / Then, all of a sudden – it snows,” wrote nineteenth-century New Hampshire poet and travel writer Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

The leaves are beginning to turn, and my mind wanders back to childhood days when Sunday afternoons, especially those in autumn, were spent along back roads of neighboring towns.

Back then we abided by the Blue Laws, and business ceased. Consequently, Sunday was not just another day of the workweek.

At our house we followed a ritual that began early in the morning when we dressed in our Sunday best and went to church.

After service, my father would drive to the neighborhood store and buy a dozen sugar-dusted jelly doughnuts.

At home my mother set out the old brown teapot. With sticky fingers we held onto our teacup in one hand and the pastry in the other.

Right after breakfast, my mother and I put on one of my grandmother’s hand-sewn aprons and prepared a full-course Sunday dinner, consisting of soup, salad, entrée, vegetables, biscuits and dessert.

Then, as soon as the dishes were washed, we went on a Sunday ride. Each week we headed in a different direction to destination unknown.

In the fall, we stopped at farm stands and harvest festivals, filling the trunk with pumpkins, chrysanthemums and jugs of apple cider.

The last stop was always at some out-of-the-way place for a double-scoop of ice cream.

Sunday evenings were quiet times, spent finishing up homework assignments and playing board games before we climbed into bed.

Today Sundays have evolved into just another workday, and many folks can no longer look forward to a day of rest. Family members are always missing when we gather around the table at home or at the summer house because they have to work.

We still begin the Lord’s Day in church and prepare an extra special Sunday dinner. But we rarely ride around the countryside.

Mostly, we relax, while reading or watching Red Sox or Patriots games.

But whenever I feel overworked and overwrought by the fast-paced lifestyle we live these days, I think back with nostalgia to quieter, simpler times when Sundays were best.