Fall is a funny time of year when everything goes upside down. Leaves, which everybody knows are supposed to be green now turn a rainbow of unnatural colors before our very eyes. And leaves are supposed to be on trees—not on the ground. The sun is now going down way too early in the evening. Temperatures are dropping and water from the garden hose that felt cold all summer, now feels weirdly warm. Hummingbirds that seemed happy to hang out in our yard even just a couple of weeks ago, have suddenly packed up and left. What do they know that we don’t know?
As winter approaches, I feel strangely nostalgic about mowing the lawn. I never really liked mowing. But now that the grass no longer needs cutting and may eventually get covered with snow, I am feeling a little deprived at having that chore taken away. All winter, the mower will sit idle on the garage floor, its considerable, though specialized talents useless and inappropriate for the season. I should be able to flip a switch and convert the mower into a snow blower or at least a toboggan.
All summer, we battled the heat with air conditioning, fans, short sleeved shirts and sandals. Now, we find ourselves switching sides on that seasonal battlefield, cozying up to the former enemy heat for our comfort and survival. Our summer clothes get stuffed into boxes for the winter and out come the necessary coats and hats and mittens that, two months earlier would have looked absurd on us and probably caused heat stroke.
Maybe humans are in denial about winter coming, but in the fall, squirrels are already celebrating. Black walnut season must be the squirrel equivalent of Thanksgiving. (Squirrel Valentine’s Day/mating season isn’t until December). Apparently, squirrels love the fall and spend their days chattering excitedly, chasing each other with bewildering speed and burying nuts, most of which they will never find again.
Crows in our neighborhood are like street gangs, patrolling their territories, swooping down to steal dog food left outside and calling out to each other in what I assume is their own secret code. In the fall, crows go into action. Their calls get louder and they venture closer to the ground, striding unafraid among parked cars and garbage cans. As if by mutual consent, they suddenly mobilize into vast black squadrons, menacing parks and high rises downtown. What are they doing that is so important? What are they planning? I suspect if the crows ever decided to turn their organizational abilities and intelligence against us humans, we’d be in big trouble.
This week, I am closing the storm windows that, all summer, brought us warm fresh air and the sounds of crickets and song birds but now threaten us with bitter cold. In winter, our world gets smaller, more intimate. But just as we become fully adjusted to life in the winter cocoon, spring will come and turn it all upside down again.