Mom's Got the Spirit

... but I don't.

 I think Gumby's "Merry Christmas, Dammit" is a better approximation of how I feel about the whole mess. Mom, on the other hand, digs through the ornaments and other Christmas decorations as though she actually enjoys it. To get to those decorations, stored from season to season in an old trunk in the living room, she must first remove Aunt Belle's old (and heavy) Victorian lamp, Mom's clock radio and assorted other paraphernalia. I, of course, am the one charged with removing the lamp (and putting it back when she is done).
 Merry Christmas, Dammit ... indeed!
 The decorations would be better stored indefinitely.
 But Mom's got the spirit and so I must go along. I did, after all, contribute $7 (plus tax) towards the enterprise so I have some, however little, vested interest in it turning out well. I'll show you first how it turned out:

 Last evening, for the first lighting, I went out onto the south lawn and took this shot looking back towards our enclosed porch. OK, it looks lovely, right? Humbug!
 What was my $7 contribution? I bought a digital timer to control the lights: on at 5 p.m., off at 11 p.m. In the winter the porch is quite cold and I didn't want to have to go in and out turning the lights on and off. Besides the only outlet is in the basement and that is even more of a hassle. So I bought a timer, programmed it and will not have to mess with any of it again until she decides (on December 26) to take it all down.

 Mom began the project two days ago. I brought the artificial tree in from the garage. We keep it there enclosed in two plastic garbage bags. I helped her dig the ornaments out of the trunk (twice). She had finished and then decided the tree "wasn't quite full enough". So off came the lamp and out came the boxes of ornaments again.

 Here's a view of the decoration in progress. Mom takes the whole event quite seriously. Our little artificial tree isn't much, is it? We've always set it up in the living room but it's so disruptive that I suggested this year we put it on the porch. Last year, with Dad being ill, we didn't put it up at all. We can see it from the dining room window; cars passing the house can see it as they come north on S. Clayton Road.

 So this part of the holidays in done for another year. That, in fact, is the best part of it. Getting it over and done with.
 Last night, as I turned to climb the stairs to bed, the dining room was lit from without by these colorful tiny lights. They were pretty; I'll give Mom that. But for myself, I'd never mess with any of it.
 Humbug, indeed!

A November Spring

 "Was that thunder?"
 Mom and I looked at each other across the darkened living room last evening. We both sat in silence as we listened for another. First a flash to the southwest and then a rolling far-off boom. "It's going to storm," we both say.
 It's not as though it wasn't expected. During the afternoon, peaks of sun drove the temperature up to 72°, a balmy spring-like day (the record was 76° in 1909). The winds were light and clouds were the only spoiler.
 By the time Mom and I came home from a visit with Mae and Charles, I walked into the backyard and enjoyed the sun sinking behind the pines. It did not have the look of rain in the near future.

 The night before was wet: 0.39". By early evening the rain had set in again and it came in waves. On radar, thin bands of red, running southwest/northeast, slid east-northeast on both sides of us and spared us the heaviest weather.But the lightning sputtered all around and the thunder rolled across the open fields. A tornado watch was in effect to 8 p.m. Another 0.38" fell.
 This has been a memorable November for its ease. We are being played with, I'm afraid. I always remember Dad talking about the Great Blizzard of 1950, how early November was exceedingly warm and how the great storm arrived in the late month. Dad and Mom, and Mae and Charlie, too, were going to Clifty Falls (Madison, IN) after Thanksgiving in honor of Mom and Dad's anniversary (they were married 11/24/1945). They dropped me off at my grandparents and set off. They were turned around by the storm and came home and stayed at our home on 11th Street instead.
 I meanwhile, enjoyed my time at grandma and grandpa's, riding through the house on my grandfather's shoulder, looking out the front window at the snow piling up at a ferocious clip.
 And so I think of that month 61 years ago and wonder whether this one offers some similarities?
 A warm, wet mid-November day with lightning and thunder and a tornado watch to boot.. What can that spell for the forecast but snow? Lots of snow.

Spaghetti Squash

 We've never had a spaghetti squash before but thanks to neighbor Marie and Tom Eby (of Tom's Maze fame), we were treated to a whole assortment of fine gourds: cushaw, butternut, acorn and spaghetti. I'm always anxious to try new dishes so I was happy to read a few reviews of how they're prepared. The best, in my way of thinking, is here.

 We've stored them outside - right on the concrete bench you see here - because it's been nice and cool. We simply made use of the free refrigeration. The spaghetti squash, by the way, is the yellow gourd on the right back.
 Preparing it for baking was simple. I cut it lengthwise, removing both the top and bottom first, and then scooped out the seeds and "innards". It's like removing the seeds from a pumpkin. We saved some of the seeds on a paper towel; I'll dry them and then place them in an envelope and plant them next spring.

 I placed the two gutted halves in a cake pan, dribbled olive oil in each half and spread it around the cut surfaces with my finger. Then I lightly salted and liberally sprinkled pepper on the squash. The pan was not oiled. I turned the squash over, placing each half cut side down, and baked it in a 400° oven for 40 minutes. To make sure it was properly done, I thrust a sharp knife through the skin. It slid easily through the flesh.

 The baked squash now converts rapidly to vegetable spaghetti by pulling a fork through the flesh. Every bit, right up to the skin, converts easily to spaghetti. I'd say it should be eaten right away, while it's fresh and hot.

 Each half converts to a full bowl of spaghetti. I know it can be layered in cheese, ladled with tomato sauce, etc. but I wanted to taste the unburdened gourd. So I added a little butter and another sprinkling of salt and scarfed it down just as you see it here.
 Delicious! There's really nothing to it and the gourd made two meals in no time at all.

As the Day Ends

 It's been a busy day, mostly mowing. Who ever heard of mowing in the Dayton area in November? Who ever heard of doing it twice? Yet that's how much of my day was spent, cutting the too-long grass before it was too late to do anything about it. It wasn't the winter ahead that scared me but the work I'd be making myself next spring.
 Now, evening, I'm treading in wet shoes, green with grass stains, and so it doesn't matter that I walk back to the field to watch the sun set. The grass is gaining a layer of dew already but the shoes are still wet and I figure the shoes are already ruined. So stand here with me and watch the sun go down. It is the best thing to do at the moment.

 There, to the south of Sam's house, the sun is already nestled in the branches. I have arrived none too soon.

 How quickly it seems to fall with the horizon as reference. You can see it dip between the branches, leaping one by one as it falls to the ground.

 And then it is nearly hidden, gone for more than half a day. Another cold night lies ahead.

 When the sun has dipped beneath the horizon, the clouds, still high enough to receive its glow, shine in the chilly sky. I can feel the dampness gather beneath my toes.

 And as a few minutes more pass, even the afterglow quiets, and a few birds sing as they search out a roost.

 The final show is an abstract painting, brushed across the bottoms of clouds. It is time for me to go in, too, and call it a day.

Jay's Story

 In years past, while Dad was still well, he took great joy in feeding a blue jay. Each morning he'd walk out to the garage, perhaps to dust the car, and he'd never forget to open a plastic bag of unsalted peanuts and lay a handful on the concrete bench on the back porch.
 Some mornings, even while he was still in bed, we'd hear jay screaming from the treetops. "Peanuts!" he seemed to say. "It's time for my peanuts!".
 I had not thought about Jay other than to note the number of jays has been increasing as winter approaches. But a couple of weeks ago, as I worked beneath the pines digging weeds, a jay landed high on a branch and began to call. I paid him no attention. But pretty soon he dropped down beside my head - so close I could have reached up and grabbed him - and let out a piercing call that nearly broke my eardrums. It was then I remembered Dad feeding them.
 So when Mom and I were shopping last weekend, we bought a bag of unsalted peanuts still in the shell. One morning early this week I placed a few on the concrete bench. Within minutes a jay appeared and began taking them.

 Each morning since, I have never failed to lay peanuts on the bench. Quickly we've heard Jay scream from the meadow and arrive for his treat. Yesterday I lay in wait in the garage, camera in hand (I left the door stand open) and aimed at the bench. Here he is getting his last nut.
 But as I stood there and watched at close range, I noticed that there was more than one jay. As soon as one flew away, another landed. No wonder the peanuts don't last long.
 Still, I will keep feeding this family, both for my own enjoyment and in memory of Dad. It made him happy to see the joy of the jays. It makes me happy, too.

The Cold World

 The furnace already works overtime. When I walk outside I glance at the heat pump, feathered with frost and watch until the defroster kicks in and great loads of steam rise in the sun. The compressor drips, then runs in a stream, the condensate refreezing beneath it on the cold earth.
 This morning, as we bottomed out at 25°, an early snowstorm slides up the east coast, dropping nearly 20" in spots. It is a cruel harbinger of winter, still seven weeks away. This is the weekend of Halloween, kids in costumes, broken pumpkins scattered about. It should be pleasant still.

 But when I begin my walk in Sam's lane, this is what I find. Sycamore leaves, newly frozen in the nighttime air lay scattered across the driveway and crunch underfoot, their ribs etched in ice. The sun shines ... that's all I can say of the promise of warmth. It is bitterly cold, though calm.
 I look upon the house roof as I begin my trek and see where the chimney once stood. When our roof was replaced many years ago, the old furnace was removed, the roof covered with new particleboard, tar paper spread out and shingles laid upon that. Still, beneath the new roof the old chimney still belches heat ... just enough that the frost is melted in a dark rectangle that betrays its former location. The fireplace chimney, still there, slants a shadow across the roof and the risen sun melts a line across the roof. Likewise the second floor bath vent is dark and wet.

 That thin lane I walk, threading between open fields, is surely the coldest spot around. Without any cover, open in every direction, it is where the temperatures first plummet. This weed, still holding its flower head erect, is covered in feathery ice. The field which lies beyond is now crunchy stubble, whitewashed overnight. The sky is a thin blue, wrung out by the clear, cold.

 Another weed, still holding some of summer's yellow, is frozen solid.

 This Queen Anne's Lace is finished for the season, its flower long-faded, its seeds already scattered. While it is now a stark scene, it was prepared for this night. Its work is long done.

 Looking like some giant spider, this Queen Anne's Lace seems to be grasping with outstretched fingers. Each line of its stalk is etched with frost.

 And yet a last flower head seems closed up, clenched tight by the lateness of the season.
 For myself, the morning walk always begins cold but as the miles unwind, I never fail to become too warm. First I unzip my coat, hoping for a little moist heat escaping. Then I pull off my stocking cap and eventually fold down my hood. I drop my pace until I cool and then step briskly again. I think of those who live in the northeast, powerless (two million have lost power due to the snow on the still-leaved trees) and know they won't have the luxury of my sunny walk.
 The sun shines brightly. The jet contrails scatter and expand. The shadows of trees and the power poles shorten as the sun rises and slides south. In Farmersville, at least, an afternoon high above 50° is promised. But it is the icy morning that brings me to life again.

The Foggiest Notion

 This morning Mom woke me at about 6:50 a.m. though I was already lying in bed awake. We were to meet Bob at Miss Molly's Bakery & Cafe at 8 a.m. so we'd have time for him to come back to the house and help me clean leaves out of the rain gutters.
 The fiberglass ladder I bought some years back, because it is long enough to reach, is also heavy enough that I can't move it. Bob can. The two of us always work together, carrying it to the house, getting it vertical and then walking it around the house as I clean out the gutters.
 This year we are late but I've had a good reason for waiting: the leaves are late in falling from the trees.

 Anyway, that said to explain why I was up early, I walked to the window at the head of my bed and looked across the dark field. All was black. But looking south, toward the nearest neighbors, I saw that a heavy fog had moved in overnight. It was an icy fog, in fact, and it stuck to the weeds in the 27° air.
 Before we left for breakfast, and after I had finished a few chores outside (taking out the daily trash, dumping the compost refuse in the garden), I took a few minutes to take a couple of pictures. It was a surreal morning, still dark at 7:30 a.m. and so cold that it clawed its way into my buttoned coat. Still, I cannot pass up the chance for a few pictures.

 In the early morning light, Pinehaven looks as though it's ready for Halloween two days early. The light on the right is Mom's living room light, beside her chair; the security light on the left is on the garage, triggered as I walked by. Pinehaven is enshrouded in fog, still asleep it would seem. It sits below grasping catalpa limbs, now winter-bare. I would expect ghosts there and, in fact, we have our own "The Milkman" who threads our steps at night. The setting is fitting and proper for such as he.

 Looking south, our next door neighbor's security lights blaze and to the left of Clayton Road, a farm is lit by three lights. We opted to not have always-on security lights. I like better the dark and appreciate a black night sky for my astronomical viewing.
 As Mom and I left soon thereafter to meet Bob, we found the fog wholly absent from the village. A mile west of here was all we had to travel and the sky suddenly cleared. That "patchy dense fog" that the weather service predicted seemed to pick us out.
 I was happy that I was up early enough to see it.