The leaves are finally falling. A couple of days ago, armed with
a rake, I was out front, shaking the apricot tree, encouraging
leaves of tenuous hold to join their fallen fellows. An older
gentleman walked by with his poodle.
The leaves are finally falling. A couple of days ago, armed with a rake, I was out front, shaking the apricot tree, encouraging leaves of tenuous hold to join their fallen fellows. An older gentleman walked by with his poodle.
“Darn leaves sure make a mess!” he boomed genially.
“I like them,” I dissented, shaking the branch, admiring the golden flutter fall. “They let me know what season it is.” He agreed, and disentangled his poodle from her leash.
I love raking leaves even in the worst of circumstances: wind, storm, cold, or gloom. I don’t let a few leaves bother me, or 10, or a score. When they accumulate into a grass killing pile, I rake them up.
These halcyon afternoons have been perfect leaf-raking weather, perfect weather to open the back door and let the fresh balmy air permeate the house. Since that first rain, the hills and fields and vacant lots have begun to green. Twelve-year-old Anne is hoping for snow, but I am reveling in the bright green promise of a California autumn.
My radishes and kohlrabi and turnips are sprouting in the garden; zinnias are sprouting in the kitchen window; my Christmas cacti are beginning to bud. (Anne and I have decided that cactus and octopus must be second declension masculine nouns.)
Even more wondrous than the weather, I have had free time to enjoy raking leaves. I’ve even washed a few windows. The breakneck pace of September and October has moderated. I’m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with the field trip Anne went on, to Sutter’s Fort in Sacramento.
We have been on a number of these overnight living history field trips over the years: the C.A. Thayer, Fort Ross, and, about five years ago, Sutter’s Fort itself. We love living history field trips: the preparation, the research, the costumes, the workshops, the overnight camping, and especially the night watch.
But of all the trips we’ve been on, Sutter’s Fort makes two requirements that I just couldn’t face this year: a mandatory Saturday teacher training day, and a mandatory pre-visit for the kids.
I thoroughly enjoyed my teacher training day five years ago, when I learned the rudiments of spinning and weaving, and I have used that knowledge to teach hundreds of children in the ensuing years. But been there, done that, got the spinning sticks. And the pre-visit was sheer torture: drive three hours, wander around the Fort for two hours, green with envy, watching other people having fun doing living history, drive three hours home. No thanks.
But Anne wanted to go. So I talked to the field trip organizer, and found rides for Anne with friends. I taught the 40 or so homeschooled children how to card, dye, and spin. I organized their spinnings. I ironed Anne’s costume. The morning of the trip, I packed her a period lunch: bread and ham and an apple.
Anne did everything else: researched her character, Lovinia Graves, aged 12, survivor of the Donner Party. She wove her pouch, put together her tinder box, organized her costume, packed her sleeping bag and toothbrush, practiced her lines for the melodrama.
And she went, and had a lovely time, particularly carousing around the Fort till 2 in the morning with her friends. She came back with a wheezy cold and spent two days in bed, but it was worth it.
For the eight hours she was gone on her previsit, and the two days she was time-traveling, I caught up on my to-do list, and even got a little ahead. It feels wonderful, as though a dark cloud has evaporated.
There are big troubles in life: war and rumors of war, violent crime, persecution, the chronic illness of a beloved child. Then there are the small frets: too much to do, or contrariwise, boredom and lack of purpose.
It’s funny how we overlook both the little blessings and the big. They are almost invisible: falling leaves, a sense of purpose, peace, safety, freedom, hope, and health. For health and strength and daily food, we praise Thy Name, O Lord.
Cynthia Anne Walker is a homeschooling mother of three and a former engineer. She is a published independent author. Her column is published in The Dispatch every Friday.
