Summer (must) fall

How to make the most of the season change

by Sally Cragin

Hollis the Mountain Man sits on his porch, surveying his tiny kingdom. There's a magical moment between summer and fall where the seasonal transition is so delicately calibrated, you're not sure if you've missed it. Hollis, who's seen umpty-ump autumns (and prefers calling it "fall" because it's easier to spell), always tries to see if he can gauge "the moment" when summer turns to fall.

He's invited Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother) to come choose a couple of sunflowers for Felix the Urban Naturalist's porch. Hollis's sunflowers are as big as dinner plates and taller than his head. There are plenty of birds at the Mountain Lair to eat the sunflowers, but Hollis has a generous nature (if generosity isn't expected of him). Besides, Felix once helped push his truck out of a snowbank.

Delia has admired the sunflowers all summer. She tells Hollis that Felix has sunflowers of his own, but they're stunted dwarf versions. "They're completely accidental -- some of the squirrels put seeds in his basil plants, so the plants grew, but not much. He'll never get those nice big seed pods the animals like." Delia knows Hollis always needs a little nudge for his good deeds -- nothing direct. "And you know how good he is with seed bells and feeders and so forth," she continues. "If his home was a social service, his front porch would be the Dukakis administration for all the teenage squirrel mothers and runaway sparrows that are provided for."

Hollis takes out his army knife, cuts a couple of flowers, and hands them to Delia. Dozens more remain, and they gaze at the garden where a light breeze causes the stalks to sway.

"This must be pretty creepy at the full moon," says Delia.

"Not really," says Hollis. "More like a choir that's lost its voice."

THE SIGNS OF AUTUMN are unmistakable. The world undergoes a temporal shift: the leaves, starved of chlorophyll melt into Day-Glo colors. Tritownies make the transition from T-shirt to long sleeves to cotton sweater to light jacket to wool sweater. That empty playing field you drove by the day before is now filled with serried ranks of high-school football players suddenly bulky and imposing in their defensive padding. (You wish you had some of their uncomplicated muscle when it comes to yanking down the storm windows.)

Every day of autumn is a transition -- even on a cloudless afternoon, the sunlight hitting the leaves seems half-hearted. New Englanders begin the day wondering what new concession will be required. "At least it's not 95 degrees anymore," we say heartily. Or, "At least it's not raining." A week later, we're still adjusting. "At least it's over 65," we admit, and then, "At least it's not quite down to freezing at night."

"Hey," says Hollis the Mountain Man irritably. "I happen to like autumn. Watching those squirrels shuffle nuts in the front yard is hilarious, and they're a reminder to me to lay in some provisions."

"Isn't it interesting how every leaf color is mirrored in the harvest products?" asks Delia. "Red for apples, brown for cider and horse chestnuts, yellow for corn, squash, and potatoes, orange for pumpkins and yams." "What about winter?" Hollis grunts irritably. Like everyone else in Tritown, his Seasonal Affectedness Disorder has kicked in, and he's merged the early stages of Rage and Denial. "What about snow and dark nights -- the white and black of bleached bones, bottomless depression, the bloodless hue of frostbitten flesh, the -- "

"Hollis," Delia barks. "Burn that bridge when you come to it. Remember, in the depths of November, you'll be yearning for the innocent amusements of late September."

"Too true," he sighs. "I'm just not ready for the unique pleasures of fall."

"Well," says Delia in her most schoolmarmish tone. "Make a list."

And so he does. You'll notice that every item can be obtained or observed virtually anywhere in Worcester County -- but don't limit yourself. Get yourself lost on a country road during peak foliage season.

Pic-Yr-Own Apples. Mac, Delicious, Gravenstein, Baldwin, Cortland, and more -- a bag of freshly picked apples is fragrant and redolent with possibility.

Real Cider. Read the label, and patronize your local farmstand. Cider without preservatives must be consumed within a day or so of cracking open the jug, but it's worth it. Consider using cider instead of milk or water when making muffins for a moister dough.

The Last of the Corn. If you're tired of gnawing on the cobs, consider steaming a baker's dozen and cutting off the kernels. Then make corn pudding, succotash, or just add the grains to a three-bean salad. As for maize -- the crossword-puzzle mini-ears -- husk but don't rip these off. Smooth them away from the ears and wire three bunches together for a classic autumnal decoration.

Horse Chestnuts. These dark brown conkers emerge from one of the quirkiest seed cases going -- a green hull studded with vicious spikes. Like many beautiful products of nature, these nuts are meant to be looked at but not consumed. Keep one in your winter coat pocket, so during the cold months, you can rub the nut in your mittened hand and feel poetic.

Foliage. Poet Lloyd Schwartz sums this up in Leaves (from his book Goodnight, Gracie). "You know this ending is a deception/Because of course nature is always renewing itself/The trees don't die, they just pretend/Go out in style, and return in style: a new style."

The autumn light will make you feel like a painter. Who has not walked along a road lined with deciduous trees and suddenly been bathed in firelight as the sun filters through the leaves? Thus ensues a momentary but genuine lifting of the heart, even for Hollis. On a good day, his glass is half-empty, and during the winter month, it's mostly empty and cracked.

"Face it," he says. "I can't enjoy fall without a certain foreboding about what's yet to come."

"You sound like a troubled spirit straight out of Dickens," chides Delia.

"Trouble is right," he says. "Too much confusion. You start out with a T-shirt in fall, and end up in parka and mukluks."

"The spirit of compromise," she says. "Speaking of which, here's a recipe I learned from Felix the Urban Naturalist that combines the best of the summer and the fall."

Felix the Urban Naturalist's Summer (must) Fall Yam Salad

You need:

One tomato

Several leaves of lettuce

Other salad fixings (see below)

One yam or sweet potato

Creamy salad dressing (this is per person)

Make a salad in a medium-sized bowl, using lettuce, tomato, and "other fixings." (Here's where you can be creative. Use kernel corn, canned beans, cukes, onions, diced beets . . .). Microwave yam or sweet potato for six or so minutes, until soft or steaming. If you're baking these, it will take closer to a half-hour. Cube potato with skin, put on top of salad, douse with dressing. The temperature contrast between hot potato and cold salad is actually kind of enjoyable, and the creamy dressing (blue cheese, creamy ranch, you make the call) enhances flavor. If you use more than one yam, and put it in a big bowl, this meal can be supper, and is also incredibly affordable, not to mention quickly assembled.

Sally Cragin edits Button, New England's tiniest magazine of poetry, fiction, and gracious living.

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