[fully imagined] traditions of old, is a gift.
I have sorted apples, put up new enclosures for the chickens, cleaned out the tool shed, cleaned up the garage, planted up the last of the pots, bought more, planted those up, stained furniture, stored outside pillows, and brought in succulents. Yet the autumn lingered.
Fujis sorted and ready to be stored.
So I bought more apples, put them in storage, trained the pyracantha and added evergreens to the front entrance. I fished boulders out of the river bed and started a rock garden, marked the saplings for winter clearing, started some clearing, spread manure on beds and turned the spigots off.
Still the autumn remained.
I turned the spigots back on again, washed the mold off the side of the house, took a pressure washer to the picnic table, brought all the ceramic pots in and removed screens from the windows. Cannas were dug (that never happens), shrubs were mulched (ditto), and my bed at the end of a long day felt sweeter than it’s felt in years.
So, oddly enough on this wet, 26-degree morning, staring at frozen pansies and euonymus troughs from my kitchen window, I not only feel a sense of accomplishment, but a great sense of relief that perhaps it’s finally over and winter will allow me a bit of rest by the fireside.
I suppose I’d better hope for business-as-usual next year. A long spring might kill me.