Under the spreading Oak tree-Hank and I raked up a very large pile of leaves last week end. He had a wonderful time playing in the soft but crinkly bed. The Oak leaf turns to shades of brown- we wondered why not other colors? You can throw them, build a fort out of them, hide under them, sleep in them with only your imagination as a boundary. Never once in over an hour did Hank lose interest in this game. He did move on to tricycle riding and playing with Mogul (aunt Katie’s cat) before a much deserved and needed nap.
The fall is a beautiful season, colorful leaves on the trees and then on the ground. The Oak leaves turn to shades of brown as they stop their food making process for the tree. The chlorophyll breaks down, the green color disappears and the yellow to orange colors become visible. The colors are always there, just over shadowed by green. Other chemical changes add variety to the foliage giving us the brilliant orange of the sugar maple or the red of the Japanese maple. Deciduous trees shed their leaves by design, the abscission zone, is composed of two layers with the top layer having weaker cell walls. In the fall the bottom layer expands and allows the leaf to be shed. I had to go to the source-not Bob Dylan for the quote “there is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1. Although we often credit the wind for the leaves falling, Mother Nature has the clock running.
All this tree focus made me think of the first line from “The village Blacksmith” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Karen was nice enough to find the poem and even read it to me. I recommend a quick read but to highlight a few verses.
“Under the spreading chestnut-tree
The village smoothly stands..”
The poem describes him and his chiseled features as well as his resolve to earn a living with honest sweat…
“And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man”..
The poem goes on to describe his daily toil and life with his family and the loss of his wife.
It concludes
“thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.”
Enjoy a poem this week end. Mike