10/02/04

The ravens are back…

Raucous, brazen, noisy – these are the harbingers of the change of the seasons. In a place where one can watch four seasons only by paying extreme attention to the details, ravens are one of the really dependable ways to tell that summer has ended and autumn is now in full swing. The melodic trills and warbles of mocking birds protecting their fledging young have gone silent, and the air is now filled with “Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Of course, around here, the ravens descend on us the moment the walnuts begin to fall. We have a tree – actually, it’s a neighbor’s tree – right next to our driveway that sprinkles walnuts liberally right where the cars can crack them conveniently. Thus, when the car is gone, a host of black moochers will descend on the pavement to pick through the squished remains of an English walnut – daintily taking the motes of nut meat from the shards of shell.

If that doesn’t work, the moochers… er… ravens will go right up in the tree itself, take a nut that is almost ready to fall out of its protective rind, and then fly away with it. From my window here at my computer, I watch ravens with their booty sitting on the top of a telephone pole, trying to peck their way through the shell. Or else they decide to get smart and drop it to the pavement time after time after time to crack it. They’re persistent and inventive little creatures, those ravens.

There are other signs of autumn too, of course. The walnut trees themselves begin to lose their leaves, as does our grape arbor. The grapes are ripe – black and round against the green and gold backdrop of leaves and vines. The poinsettia bush near my kitchen window has finally reached the ten-foot-tall mark in places – although this year, the leaves are curled from the slightly longer spate of hot weather.

The wind has a serious chill to it now – an invitation to be smart and not leave the house without a jacket at least tossed into the car “just in case.” The hills behind town are still golden – but it is a gold that is beginning to have a brown and dead feel to it because the seed heads are long since either eaten or fallen. In the areas where there is some farming, the corn stalks are either tall and producing or turning golden and drying. Area tomatoe vines are producing their little hearts out – which means that there is canning to do to put up stewed tomatoes for soups and casseroles in the winter.

The wisteria vine just outside my other window here at my computer is beginning to show signs of thinking about losing its leaves. Many of the older leaves now have black tips to them – and the trend is spreading. This being the first year that I’ve had a genuine green canopy of leaves at my window, it’s interesting to see how a plant begins to go dormant. I need to replenish the sugar water that feeds some of the area hummingbirds – that’s a show that I don’t want to lose out on.

Autumn is when the joints creak just a little louder, hot chocolate tastes just a little bit better, and the air gets a crisp feel to it – even when it’s warm enough to have the door standing open, as I do now. At night, I’m starting to think that maybe it will get cold enough one of these days for us to use the fireplace.

I love the changing seasons – but I think I love autumn the best. Everything has a sense of completion to it – ripe and full, or already harvested.

Even my own life is starting to move into autumn now. My kids are grown – although not gone, which is OK right now. My parents are older, needing help now. I look at all the women running around with toddlers or infants and think to myself, “been there, done that, your turn!” I’ve no grandkids yet – although I’m in no hurry to have them – and know many of my friends who are already grandparents several times over. The grey is starting to outnumber the black on my head.

But, you know? I still feel young inside – not a whole lot different than I felt at sixteen or twenty-two. I have a heckuva lot more memories stored away in my grey matter now than I did in those days, but other than that and the aching bones, I haven’t changed all that much.

Well… OK. Yes, I’ve changed. Even though I’ve a long way to go, I’m slightly more patient now than I was back then. I’m a little less materialistic. I’m a little more tolerant (on my good days.)

I’m not quite ready to retire to my rocking chair and continually preach about “when I was your age…” but I’m not that discontent with my lot.

And yet, this world – at least that part of it overwhelmingly conditioned and shaped by commercial interests – wants me to want my youth back. Oil of Olay has how many products now to help me deal with my wrinkles and “aging skin.” They have commercials now extolling the benefits of Botox, Rogaine, Viagra/Cialis, you name it that will lift, separate, enhance, return, replace that which has sagged, come together, diminished, vanished or departed for greener pastures.

It’s really a shame, because there is a lot of beauty to be found in that which sags, silver hair shines just a little brighter than black or blonde. Wrinkles on the face tell stories about character and a life that has been lived. Whether or not a person buys into the ever-young society that marketing influences want us to become, no amount of Botox, Cialis, Rogaine or Oil of Olay will be able to wash away the number of days a person has been here.

There is a poem I read back when I was considerably younger that I have a much greater appreciation for now. It begins, “When I am old, I shall wear purple” and goes on to extol the virtues of being content with who I am in each and every moment – not caring what others say or think.

I’m not old – at least, not by my own measure. But I think I’m going to wear purple a little more often, despite all that. To hell with Oil of Olay, Rogaine and the rest. Each silver hair I wear is a crisis I survived and because of which I grew stronger. My wrinkles celebrate my life with me. My body sags where it has been used for the purpose for which it was intended. I’m not ashamed of having lived.

Autumn’s cool – in more ways than one.