September 2, 2026
I haven’t spent much time studying trees.
That’s not to say I don’t care for them. I love trees. I love their look, their
shade, and the way they seem, in their quiet and subjective way, to be a
constant symbol of stability.
I’ve
never once before this vey moment considered whether or not any particular tree
is hard working or not. But if I were to consider such a thing, I’m afraid I
would have to rank our walnut tree—yes I mean you, Mr. Walnut Tree growing at
the northeast corner of my porch—as the laziest tree that God ever created.
The very last to form its leaves in the
spring, the walnut is a great, beautiful tree that provides wondrous,
green-leafed shade. Right up until that first walnut begins to form.
The moment you see that first round green
nut you know the truth—autumn is about to hit. Oh, not by the calendar, nor by
the temperatures, and not in our thoughts, because that first nut is formed in
August. It’s truly as if the tree says, “okay, there you go. Done my job. Now
go away and let me sleep.” Because from that moment on, constantly, one after another,
those beautiful and distinctive green leaves begin to turn a very ordinary yellow
and then drop everywhere.
Everywhere!
And there’s no variety to them, they’re
just a limp and useless yellow, not remarkable except in their landing
everywhere and over everything.
The first couple of years that we lived in
this house, we set out being scrupulous when it came to the tidiness of our
yard. I’d get out every weekend and rake, rake, rake, until I had gathered up
all the discarded leaves and bagged them.
A sense of satisfaction visited me on
Monday morning as I left for work, because that front yard and sidewalk looked
well-groomed and free of debris. And by Wednesday evening the yard looked as if
its owners didn’t even own a rake!
I will admit that our enthusiasm began to
wane after the first decade or so. The Walnut tree was our tree (even though it’s
technically on the town’s land) and I didn’t mind caring for its debris. But
friends, I would rake those leaves from mid-August (and a couple of years from
late July) and just when that tree was finally bare and done, well, the various
other trees in our neighbourhood would take their turn. The leaves of the maple
and ash trees would change colour and drop. David would mumble something about
the trees not even being ours. But I always felt that since I had sat on
that porch and enjoyed their beauty through the spring and summer, my raking up
those leaves was appropriate payment for that privilege.
The good news from the gardens is that
there are several green tomatoes out there growing. The bad news is they’re still
green, and taking their sweet time turning red. I accept that I’m more than a
tad impatient. But after a very long three or four days of rain, yesterday
there was sun and there’s a hint of that today. I’m certain that if we could have
two or three sunny days in a row, we would indeed have fresh tomatoes just
waiting to be picked and devoured. Therefore, I’m hopeful.
This year we have the latest possible Labor
Day we can have. I remember as a kid being sad when this happened: it had been
a long summer, and I wanted to get back to school. I’d reached the point of boredom,
and it was agony. Why? Because if I dared to say those two words (I’m bored) within
hearing of my mother, goodness knows what awful chore she’d find for me.
For my entire life, both elementary (includes
primary) and high school in these parts has begun the day after Labor Day—and ended
in late June. I no longer have children or grandchildren going to school. I do
have some great-grandchildren—four, in fact—of school age. But we do live on
the bus route and so for me in a way, “back to school” is still a thing.
School back in session means there will be
dog barking from about 8 until 9 each weekday. It also means I have to tell our
daughter’s oldest chihuahua, “it’s not time yet”, when she asks for the porch.
Kids don’t need to be barked at first thing in the morning.
By the signs and customs of my people—and canines—next
week our routine begins to get back to normal.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
