Fall is Fell*

Nothing is forever.  Not last year's leaves, even if a tree is "evergreen."  What that means for a Giant Sequoia is that their leaves do not last only a spring/summer/fall, but for a full year, plus a few months, and every fall they loose the leaves from the previous year.

Golden carpet

Today while the Things I get to do today kept me safe and warm indoors as Nature assured us rather wildly with wind and rain that it was no longer summer, fall fell. Leafy needles everywhere.  Brown/black earth turned gold-orange in a few hours.

Nourishing itself with litter back into the soil

*An old rhyme that delighted a friend in high school in the 1960's:

Spring is sprung.

Fall is fell.

Summer is here,

And it hotter than
the average.

Beds To Bed

Quilts tell stories.  The design names reveal a glimpse of the plot:  Wedding Knot, Drunkard's Path,  Dublin's Steps, Coffins Star,  Dad's Bow Tie,  Alabama Beauty.  Family history and all its memories are woven into the fabrics.

Leaves--from the earth to the earth

When putting the garden beds to bed was on the Things I get to do today, I began thinking about quilts.  The idea of keeping the earth in the garden covered with mulch or ground cover was working its way into this fall ritual. A quilt for each bed, of course.

Nature's Quilt Design

The trees in my yard have not dropped enough of their leaves to make a thick enough mulch, and our gusty winds that come with fall rain would tend to flap the covers by sending all the leaves to one side of the yard instead of snuggling down into each garden bed.  But the giant Pin Oaks in the nearby park had piled up the gutters by the sidewalk with their leaves for several blocks.  A quick trip with  my little pickup and garbage bags, the results sucked through my leaf blower/shredder to create a fine texture that will stay in place, and the beds were all tucked in the for rain, the fall and the winter.  Nature's quilted design creates beauty at every level.

Unknitting Nature

It was snowing when I woke up this morning.  Green snow.  Actually, the more I think about it, maybe it was raining--raining leaves, except that it was cold enough to snow.  This was the day of  fall magic.

There are two persimmon trees in my yard, a Fuyu, that makes the little pumpkin-looking fruits that can be eaten when firm, and a Hachiya, which is more acorn shaped and must be slippery-soft to neutralize the astringent quality.  The firm persimmons are usually abundant and delicious every year.  The ones that are supposed to be like honey never quite ripen and, at their best, resemble orange mashed potatoes.  We do not eat them.

Naked by noon

The point here is that when persimmon trees let go of their leaves, they let go.  A good frost somehow goes in to the very spot that holds each leaf to its twig and unknits the connection.  The leaves fall.  It's almost like a race, each leaf not wanting to be still seen still hanging around by lunch time.  Leaves in the morning, naked by noon,  purest of magic, and frost is the master magician.

The persimmon's dress, fallen around her ankles.

The great unknitting magician

The first of the Things I get to do today is capture the magician.  I found him in the chicken's water!