Waiting on fall

Why am I so anxious for fall to come?  Why do I look forward to putting on my warmer jacket and boots when I take my daily stroll down the road?  Why do I long for color in the trees that stretch far beyond my view to the west and north and east?

I must confess.  I love change.  Especially when we have suffered through what seemed to be a dry and hotter than usual late summer.  But change is coming.  I can see it every day.

The thermometer in the morning shows shivering numbers.  The wind has a certain crispness to it.  The squirrels are extra busy searching for nuts to hide.  Geese are flying south.

I love fall.  We build a fire in the stove in the morning to take off the chill.  And sometimes even in the evening.  I take walks down along the road and try to find the elusive wildflowers that decorate the stony margins this time of year.  The latest rain has helped them grow and I am finding a few more here and there.

Sunrises and sunsets are spectacular.  That ruddy line of orange-red that heralds the rising sun.  The crimson of the setting sun that lights up the trees with glowing splendor.  It takes your breath away.

I can not imagine a world without an autumn.  Constant warm breezes and hot sun.  Not for me.  

I guess I am fortunate to be able to live in a part of the country that has changing seasons.  Yes, even winter.  It is all part of the price we pay for the glory that is fall.  And I am enjoying every minute of it. 

Blessed Rain

It began for us during the evening on Saturday.  Rumbling in the west, the dark cloud moved toward us.  So many times it splits there at Caney and moves south and north around our hill.  But this was a strong willed storm. It moved steadily east, conquering the dry fields and hollows in its path.

And how welcome it was.  Parched.  We were so parched.  Dry as dry could be.  The creek had not had a drop of water in it for weeks.  Everyone else got a little sprinkle here and there.  But, here, high on the hill in Luna, Mother Nature failed to deliver.  So dry that the grass crackled and crunched beneath our feet.

All through the night the blessed rain fell.  Hard at times with echoes of thunder and streaks of lightning.  The wind blew.  I could hear it rattle the rain across the flue.  But it was a welcome sound.  And I could sleep with that lullaby whispering to me.  Rain, blessed rain.

Sunday morning.  More rain.  On our way to church we crossed the slab with water running under it.  A sight to behold.  Those rough rocks and gravel seemed to revel in the water washing over them. As we joined in morning prayer I said a silent thank you to God for the rain.  I know that sometimes it is an inconvenience.  And we know what too much rain can do.  But this was just right.

I marked 3 and 7/10ths in the gauge when it was all over.  Not as much as some, but enough to green the grass and fill the ponds and lead us into this new month on a positive note.

As the sun shone on the wet grass, I smiled and felt a lifting in my heart.  Even in the worst of times we can look for rain.  And even though we might have to wait for it, the blessed rain will come.

Sorghum molasses

These were our companions for the past weekend.  Kit and Kate.  A pair of sister mules. They were hitched up to the sorghum mill as we made sorghum molasses down in the hills of Arkansas.  

What a treat.  Lots of  friends and lots of help.  The cane crop was not as plentiful this year.  We cut and trimmed and loaded it onto the trailer and pulled it down to the farm.  Setting up the mill was not a hard task.  And the rest went like clockwork.  Until we awoke on Saturday morning and discovered that Kit and Kate had taken an early morning stroll...somewhere.  Luckily they had found a neighboring field where the grass was thick and green.  There they were, happily grazing, waiting to be found.

Soon everyone was busy with the chore of making sorghum molasses.  The green juice poured out of the mill into a bucket.  When we had about 15 gallons of juice it was poured into the cooking pan and set on the fire.  Skimming the juice and tending the fire so the sorghum cooks evenly is an art.  And we had the people to do it.  Taking turns and visiting while the green juice turned to gold and then to a golden brown was one of the many pleasures of the day.  

While some people worked others sat in the shade and visited.  Some brought their fiddles and guitars and banjos.  Under the cool shadow of the oak tree we enjoyed hearing our favorite music,

Food was plentiful.  Everyone brought something to eat. Sharing lunch out on the porch or sitting in the yard, we visited and caught up with the news of what had happened in the last year.

The children loved to help.  They hauled the cane from the trailer to the mill, fed the stalks into the mill, and hauled the remains out to feed the cows across the road.  They worked as hard as any adult.  What a joy to see them working so steadily.  And seeing their smiling faces when the sorghum was finally ready to be poured out into jars. 

Finally, when the last jar was filled and the mules unhitched for the day, we all hugged and promised to do it again next year.  What a joy to do something together.  To forget for a time the pressures that await us back home.  To take time to talk and laugh and share stories.  

This is what life should be like.  All of us, sitting in the gathering twilight, knowing that we have helped each other enjoy an age-old tradition from a simpler time.  Makes us smile and vow to do it again next year. And we have jars of sorghum in our cupboards to remind us.