Merry
making
story by LAURA LINDBLOM
The last of the gold has faded from the grasses , and all that remains of the summer flowers are ghostly memories , wispy stalks and withered leaves that rattle and rasp in the frosty breezes , and the hardwood trees in ravines and gullies are bare and twisted against a darkening backdrop of ponderosa pines .
There is the occasional glint of color in the underbrush , from a lingering scarlet leaf or a dried rosehip still clinging to the mother plant , but it is a different world from what it was a month ago , or three months ago . It is a world ready for its yearly rest .
The end of the year is fast approaching . We ’ ve rung all the sunlight we can from the golden days of summer , we ’ ve soaked it up , hoarded and put by the autumn bounty , and the shortening days have shortened again , and the shadows have lengthened until the whole day feels like a late afternoon .
It is the evening of the year , but no one is quite ready for sleep .
Bittersweet , we ship off the fall calf crop in early November , thankful , but with a strange sense of sadness as the cattle pots roll away loaded heavy . Cows , round with calf , are turned out to their winter pastures and , if the summer was good to us , which it was this year , the animals have a healthy layer of fat and thick hair to carry them through the cold months . Soon will begin the daily task of breaking ice to keep water open , feeding hay , and keeping the mamas healthy through what becomes a challenging season .
The summer songsters in the hayfield are gone for warmer climes , but nuthatches and chickadees still dip and dive from tree branch to tree branch , stout little things that seem to have no fear of what ’ s coming , no fear of the cold . Before too long , they ’ ll be seen frolicking in a snowstorm , making merry while everyone else has hunkered down inside . Bluejays , saucy and disrespectful , also stay and brave the winter , bright sparks of color in a faded world . The singing of cicadas ceased long ago , and the haunting bugling of the elk becomes a faint recollection . The gentle sound of footfall on fallen leaves changes , too , as the ground freezes underfoot .
If the world outside grows dim and faded , inside is another story altogether . The last holdouts from the garden , the remaining pumpkins and tomatoes that didn ’ t quite ripen , are stashed in corners , piled high in bowls and baskets . What wonderful chaos reigns ! Bright jars of jams and pickled golden beets and zucchini salsa , gallon jars of waterglassed eggs in a
18 Down Country Roads January / February 2025