11/21/2005. Fall Trilogy I

Autumn falls late and settles gently over the countryside of Normandy. The leaves turn slowly, by almost imperceptible increments, to the shades of soft gold and russet which are the autumn cloak of the indigenous oaks and beeches with dominate our forests. Red and orange are worn by only a few strident American ornamentals, such as the sweetgum. Maples and sweetgums are planted in France expressly to conjure up a bit of New World autumn color, which in the French imagination glows with almost mythic brilliance. In France, fall foliage color is one of the most storied aspects of the American landscape.



While occasionally I miss the flaming colors of my native Indiana woods, I've learned to appreciate the gentle nuances of fall in Normandy, and the way autumn softly paints the landscape. For a brief period, before we have our first frost, I admire the old golds and claret red in the stems of the St. John's wort in the orchard meadow, and I cut the deep chestnut seedheads which I find even prettier than the plant's yellow summer flowers. A week from now the low flames of these colors will be extinguished until this time next year.



Fall is ephemeral, and its very passage reminds me that my life is, too. Maybe that's why I'm comforted in the mild nostalgia that seizes me at this time of the year by actions that give me the illusion of somehow freezing the moment--and keeping it. I wander the garden, collecting images to hoard against the cold days to come. I admire the slender scarlet tubes of the pineapple sage flowers, which just barely make it into bloom in our cool climate. Their appearance is a sure sign that killing frost is not far behind.



Suddenly the least flower seems precious. Our weekend dining table bouquet has dwindled from the lavish displays of summer to a fragile collection of the last occasional blossoms that still garnish the garden here and there. Luckily, we have armloads of hydrangea blossoms which will keep their color in dried form to solace us through the short days. Only the roses continue to bloom valiantly often until the end of December, when hard cold finally puts them to sleep for a couple of months.



Of course, as a lifelong potagiste, I am motivated by the suddenly shortening daylight to stock the bounty of said potager against the winter. Mindless of the year-round availability of all sorts--no, make that "many sorts"--of excellent produce at my primeur's, or produce shop, I scurry among vegetable garden, orchard, and house with the unquestioning intensity of an ant following a scent trail. I pause only to agonize about when killing frost will actually hit. As mine is a weekend garden, I won't be able to listen to the weather forecast daily, then run out and gather on the eve of frost. I settle on compromise: I bring in part of my winter squash (the ripest ones), and gamble on leaving the less mature ones out for a few more days of fall sunshine.



But because rain is frequent, I harvest the precious Tarbais pole beans, as they are mostly dry now anyway. I'll worry about shelling them on some frigid rainy day when I can't work outdoors.

When I open the door of the woodshed and enter its dim interior from the brilliant sun outdoors, I can hardly see until my eyes adjust to the light. But I can smell them. The closed-in air of the shed is thick as nectar with the aroma of apples. In Normandy, apple trees produce bushels of fruit even if you do nothing at all for the trees. Denis, as the male of the ant species, spent days carrying them in one by one, clamped in his wiry ant-jaws...no, just kidding.



Spring, of course, is a season just as ephemeral as fall. But somehow it's exuberance makes me too giddy to think much. Fall, on the other hand, inexorably slows me down and makes me reflect. This turning inward seems part of the natural rhythm of shortening days and slanting sunlight, of this season of decline and decay, without which spring's renewal and rebirth wouldn't be possible. The lilacs in full bloom are beautiful, certainly, but so is the squash sitting on my compost pile, poised on the brink of transformation into humble humus.

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