My Better Half

Today is my darling wife Melany's birthday (thoughtlessly, I almost mentioned the number, but caught myself at the last moment--a mistake like that could be fatal!  ;-)  I don't think I've ever expressed, in a public forum, just how wonderful this lovely lady is and how much she means to me. We've been married 31 years, and I'm still learning from her--and all good things, too.

It was on a Saturday night in September, 1976, at someone else's birthday party in our apartment complex near Michigan State University, that we first met. As I recall she was sitting on the floor with a plate of cake in her lap, chatting with whoever was around. I was immediately attracted by her radiant smile and cheerful, easygoing manner, and sat down on the floor next to her--pretty uncharacteristic for a buttoned-up bookworm like me. We had a nice conversation about something since forgotten, and then--being the selfless, generous person she was and is--she introduced me to another young lady. She's often told me since that she instantly regretted doing so. No lasting harm done; after a few weeks' diversion, we both had to admit that our initial instincts were best, and we started over. Before my graduation that June, we had an "understanding," as folks used to say. But first I had to finish law school--and then there was a year of work to accumulate a nest egg. More hesitation, then commitment--for good! We got married on the Fourth of July, so we'd always have fireworks on our anniversary!

The years since then have been a daily revelation to me of God's wondrous grace and providence. There's no "rational" explanation for why an introverted, skeptical boy from western New York and an outgoing, optimistic girl from central Michigan would somehow find each other, be mutually attracted, and yoke their whole futures together--and stay together--despite all the forces of geography, destiny, personal predilection, and life challenges that would buffet them over the years. How has she found it in herself to put up with all my shortcomings and grievous mistakes, and all the disappointments and unrealized dreams that marriage inevitably entails? Only the merciful and miraculous will of God, and the bountiful guidance of the Holy Spirit, can explain these things. What other force could enable us to have and raise three wonderful children to maturity, and them to stay in the path of righteousness and safety in the face of all the physical and moral dangers confronting them in this modern world?

But God didn't act alone in producing this miracle. More than anyone else it has been Melany through whom He worked. Her example of patience, kindness, diligence, faith, and good cheer continues, every day, to be a wonder and an inspiration to me and the children. She brings out the best in us and has made us far better people than we could ever have been without her. Our family and all that we, our children, and our grandchildren will ever be and accomplish in this life, are her eternal monument. May God bless her abundantly and keep us all together, for long years and forever, in the palm of His hand.

I'm BAAAAACK!

Hello, my faithful Followers! If you've been wondering why I haven't posted in over a month--it's been a most trying one!

Several weeks ago my 5-year-old computer--which up to that point had been performing reasonably well--became infected with a series of nasty viruses that made the machine all but unusable. After much searching for help and labor, I'd get them cleaned off, only to have something else invade within a few days. My security software--two suites' worth--seemed incapable of keeping the system healthy. Ultimately, it became painfully obvious that the only effective solution would be to replace the computer entirely, which I reluctantly did. That meant going through all my files and programs (when the old computer would allow me to), saving to an external hard drive everything I wanted to keep, detaching the old machine and hooking up the new one, then painstakingly copying back onto it the old files, reinstalling what old programs I could and installing new ones, and configuring/reconfiguring EVERYTHING. All of that while trying to learn a new operating system. All this in the evenings and on weekends, including holidays. ARRGGHH!!!

On top of that, I had to buy a new mp3 player to replace my old iPod (that was left in a pants pocket and run through the washing machine while we were down in Florida in June to visit my parents and sister's family), and learning/configuring that and loading my music onto it--most of which had to be searched for and retrieved from the external hard drive. AND, my dear wife--the one who professes a deep antipathy toward computers and digital devices generally--decided she wanted an iPod Touch, which has a decidedly higher learning curve than your average simple mp3 player and even old iPod models. So, I've put in a good bit of time in the last week or so figuring out how to set up that little item.

Bottom line: no time for blogging in almost seven weeks! Now that I seem to have gained some degree of familiarity and control over the new computer, and have the new devices set up on a basic level, I hope to have more opportunity for blogging. So much has happened, here and in the world generally, since I've been "incapacitated"! How have you all managed to find your way without my inspiration and guidance? Well, take heart, friends--your sage counselor is back to impart his matchless wisdom and return humanity to Truth, Justice, and the American Way!

It IS getting a bit deep here, isn't it?

. . . On the Erie Canal

And you'll always know your neighbor
And you'll always know your pal
If you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal.

from the song Low Bridge (1905)
by Thomas S. Allen

Well, I've never actually "navigated on" the Canal, unless being a canal boat passenger once or twice qualifies. But the Erie Canal--located, as the crow flies, only a couple of hundred yards from our house in Brockport, New York-- is an ever-present feature of our lives. My bus crosses and re-crosses it several times a day between home and work. My office window, in a 122-year-old building in downtown Rochester, looks out over an old aqueduct, on which a street now runs, that once carried the Canal across the Genesee River.

My office is on the second floor from the top of that red brick building at the left, about the fourth one in from the corner above the river.

Indeed, Brockport--the town we live in--is known as "The Victorian Village on the Erie Canal." It wouldn't be much of a place without the Canal.

Under construction from 1817 to 1825, the Erie Canal was the first transportation system between the eastern seaboard and the western interior (Great Lakes) of the United States that did not require portage. Cutting transport costs by about 95%, the Canal fostered a population surge in western New York, opened regions farther west to settlement, and helped New York City become the chief American port. It's no longer a commercial artery, but is still a recreational and historic treasure.

Currently, the Canal's chief role in our family's life is as the ultimate place to walk our big greyhound Frank--he loves all the trees, bushes and rocks lining the sides of the gravel path that runs alongside the waterway. For us, walking him there is a chance to get much-needed exercise, to chat and bond, and to enjoy a scenery that's both constant and ever-changing with the seasons--for example, the water freezes in winter, making a great surface on which ducks can land and "surf" to a stop on the ice, one of the funniest things you'll ever see! In the spring, the banks are crowded with brilliant wildflowers, and the chorus of frogs in the marshes along the path makes a compelling music. In the summer the path becomes a busy thoroughfare for joggers and bikers (the latter including me). And our fall season, my favorite, is just coming to a close. The air is clear and cool with that spicy/smoky aroma, and the trees and bushes are (or were, a couple of weeks ago) ablaze with red, orange, and gold leaves. I wanted to share with you some photos I took on several recent excursions along the Canal near our home.

The following two pictures were taken on a recent bike ride along the Canal heading west from near our house and toward the village of Holley. If I kept going this way, I'd eventually find myself in Buffalo!

The picture below was also taken heading west, but from the village of Brockport looking toward the SUNY Brockport campus and the vicinity of our home on the other side of that.

The next set of pictures, on the other hand, were taken just across the Canal from our house and headed east, toward the village of Brockport. This is the part of the Canal where we most often walk Frank. You can see him and Melany in the first picture below!

If you keep going east along the Canal from near our house, you approach the village of Brockport. Even here on the edge of "civilization," foliage beside the path can be almost as dense and colorful as you might find in a rain forest!

Nevertheless, if you look closely, you'll catch sight of a little house nestled amidst the boughs and fronds--almost looks as if a hobbit might emerge from it at any moment!

One of my favorite things about the fall in these parts are the little purple flowers--I don't even know what they are--that abound along our roads and pathways, including the Canal. They make such a contrast with the greens and golds about them!

Sadly, now that it's mid-November, our autumn brilliance is past. In about 10 days, the people who run the state canal system will draw down the water to almost a trickle, just enough to create an icy surface in December for the ducks to skate on. Fine entertainment as we walk Frank along the path in the bitter cold!

And I aint prevaricatin' 'bout the Erie Canal.

Spring Has Sprung!

I discovered this past weekend that nothing beats the rush of standing out in your yard on an early April day, soaking up sunshine and warmth, and gazing across brilliant green grass up to the budding trees! Just six weeks ago we were under a foot and a half of snow, and hosting a small herd of deer trying to scratch some sustenance from under the frozen blanket. Mercifully, we saw hardly a flake of snow after that weekend, and in recent weeks have enjoyed remarkably warm temperatures and copious sunshine (for this area).

Who would have thought that the season's first occasion for what most deem a drudgerous chore would fill me with delight?

As I mowed, Melany began working in the little flower garden beside our house--but not without interruption by Princess Chloe, who demanded adulation as she reclined on the sun-warmed driveway!

I think that if our long winters weren't so desolate and depressing, our spirits wouldn't soar as high as they do in the Spring, and we wouldn't appreciate this wonderful season so much. And with our world so widely plagued with conflict, misery, and fear, perhaps we should regard this time as a blessed portent of better things to come for all mankind:

For as the earth bringeth forth her bud, and as the garden causeth the things that are sown in it to spring forth; so the Lord GOD will cause righteousness and praise to spring forth before all the nations. ~ Isaiah 61:11

HAPPY SPRING, EVERYONE!

Our Surrogate Children

Every now and then someone asks me how Melany and I like being "empty nesters." I give them a quizzical look and explain that we're not--we just exchanged our now-grown children for pets, a greyhound named Frank and a black-and-white cat named Chloe. Unlike our children, our pets won't grow up, at least mentally. On the other hand, they won't incur educational loans they want us to co-sign for. So it all washes out in the end, I guess.

I'm not sure which aspect of pet ownership predominates in our house right now--the endearing/entertaining dimension, or the aggravating/burdensome one. Of course, there's no bright-line distinction, and one can morph into the other in the blink of an eye. Take Chloe -- please . . .

One day last week, as Melany was piling clothes into our front-load washing machine, Chloe crept up from behind, hopped inside, and burrowed down as Melany continued to toss in more clothes in unawares. Just before she closed the door and turned on the machine, Melany noticed the clothes inside MOVE--she flung the door open and pulled some of the contents aside, and of course found the cat staring back at her from under the pile! Once she got the cat out of the washing machine and finished with the laundry, Melany opened the stand-up freezer door to put in some items, whereupon the cat jumped inside the freezer. This time Melany saw her right away, as her black coat was readily visible against the freezer's white interior. So, she didn't come nearly as close to a bizarre and painful end as she just had inside the washing machine. But that didn't keep her from trying to exhaust all nine of her allotted lives. This past Sunday we gave Chloe her first real taste of freedom outdoors (as the weather was relatively good and the cat had recently been "fixed"), and one of the first things she did was climb the big bush beside our back door, all the way up to where it meets the roof over the back porch. Of course, she had to go explore the roof, too. Unfortunately, when she got bored with that, she couldn't--or wouldn't--climb back down the bush the way she had come up. Instead, she stood on the roof mewing and pacing back and forth until Robert opened a bedroom window that opens above the roof, for her to jump through. Just a few hours after that we caught her sitting on the second--floor stairway banister, reaching up with obvious intent to jump onto a ceiling-mounted light fixture that hangs a good 20 feet above the bottom of the stairwell, with a metal hand railing on the spiral staircase between the ceiling and the floor. Needless to say, if Melany hadn't intervened to disabuse her of this idea, she'd be occupying a small box underground right now.

Frank seems less intent on winning posthumous awards for chutzpah. In fact, he seems quite content to spend his daily life doing nothing more than dozing and trotting along the Erie Canal when we take him up there (at least once a day) so he can release all his, ah, "frustrations." He huffs at the deer hanging around our yard, especially if they approach the house, but hardly notices squirrels and rabbits any more. I guess that's what happens when middle age creeps up on you (as I know from personal experience).

Contrary to all the conventional wisdom about greyhounds' animosity toward cats, Frank gets along quite well with Chloe, notwithstanding her frequent playful "attacks" on him from chairs or from behind doorways or under beds, and even though she regularly helps herself to his food (in retaliation, he regularly helps himself to her food).


Lately, when we want to treat "the kids," we put one plate down for them, and they happily go to town side by side. Naturally, Frank sucks up a lot more a lot faster than Chloe does, but he was "here first," after all, and she hasn't yet lodged a formal complaint.

As aggravating (and expensive) as these two can be, they do add a certain livelihood to our otherwise quiet, childless home. They remind us constantly of that age-old parents' lament: "Kids! Can't live with 'em; can't shoot 'em . . ." Maybe we'll just keep 'em.

Winter Wonderland

For he saith to the snow, Be thou on the earth . . . ~ Job 37:6

And so it was--by the foot! This weekend saw the biggest one-storm snowfall total in the Rochester area in three years: depending on your precise location, 12 to 18 inches (I think we had about 16 inches in Brockport), and more in the hills. Of course, that isn't nearly what our neighbors to the . . . south have had in the last few weeks! Go figure. And my wife Melany is talking about someday moving south to avoid all the snow! She might want to rethink that one.

Anyway, once it stopped falling and blowing around, and we were able to drive Bigfoot up and down the driveway a few times, the snow made for some beautiful pictures. The one below was taken beneath a canopy of snow-covered branches on the tree that overhangs our driveway, just in front of the garage.

And here's a closeup of the fascinating lattice-work formed by those branches:

There is a race that suffers in winter far more than we do: the deer. They're a more common presence in these parts than rabbits. The woods, and even the nearby college campus, seem to be teeming with them. Backyards adjoining wooded areas are regarded by them as mere extensions of their feeding grounds. It's like living amidst herds of wild horses galloping about everywhere.

How do animals that big run so fast through the thickly tangled undergrowth? I've seen them leap over fallen trees and hang almost motionless in midair. Many people consider them pests, and they can be a danger running across roads or, every once in a while, into a house. I, however, look on them as beautiful, gentle creatures just trying to survive and provide for their children in a difficult world. It's a breathtaking delight when they wander into our back yard and come right up to our house to nibble on the bushes.

I guess I should be angry about the damage they sometimes do--few things are uglier than denuded bushes in the springtime around one's house--but I can't help feeling sorry for these noble animals. It's sad to see them pawing through the snow on a frigid, windswept day trying to find a few dead leaves or sticks to eat.


Just this afternoon Melany and I watched a young doe struggle from the woods through heavy, wet snow up to her shoulders to reach a bare spot under a pair of pine trees in our back yard. There once was a blanket of dry leaves and small branches under there, left over from fall raking, but the deer pretty thoroughly consumed that before this one arrived. Then she forlornly dragged herself back through the snow and into the woods. Melany had me take a panful of cracked corn out to the trees after she left, in hopes that she and her fellows could reach it again. Within the hour, they were back!


Is this not an allegory for all life in this world, including our own? The deer have only the generosity and providence of God to sustain them, and humbly endure whatever challenges come their way. We "higher" creatures, on the other hand, take great pride in our own ingenuity, and many dismiss the whole idea of God as unnecessary and irrelevant to their lives. That is, until some disaster strikes, like one of the earthquakes that have recently devastated Haiti and Chile. Then they rend their garments and moan in sorrow, or even in anger at God (whom they just yesterday forgot or disdained) for the "injustice" of it all. Perhaps we should be more mindful of the wild creatures with whom He's blessed our lives, and remember from Whom we really receive life and all our bounty.

These wait all upon thee; that thou mayest give them their meat in due season.

That thou givest them they gather: thou openest thine hand, they are filled with good.

Thou hidest thy face, they are troubled: thou takest away their breath, they die, and return to their dust.

Thou sendest forth thy spirit, they are created: and thou renewest the face of the earth.

Psalm 104:27-30

Special thanks to my daughter Donna for taking the stunning picture above and the "chow line" photo above that, while she was here visiting in January!

Blowing It

I've sold out. Today, after intense lobbying by my wife and elder son, I broke down and bought a snowblower.

The consensus was that I'm too old and decrepit to shovel snow anymore, at least without serious risk of a heart attack or stroke. No matter that I've been doing it the old-fashioned way since the Johnson administration (that's Lyndon, not Andrew), including during and after the "Storm of the Century" (or Great Blizzard of 1993), when I shoveled for two days straight and was piling snow more than six feet high at the end of the driveway. No matter that the shovel and I were still going strong here less than 12 months ago.

My father continued to shovel at my age (54), although he then decided to avoid the shovel/snowblower issue altogether and moved to Florida. I suppose a snowblower would be the cheaper alternative in the long run--although, if I use this thing six or seven times a year (about how often during a season that we have a snowfall really worthy of attack by a snowblower) and hang onto it for as long as 12 or 13 years, I'll still be paying around $10 for every time I use it. Besides, how am I to prove my manhood between December and March? What if they revoke my honorary Amishman's license? I used to be able to stand out in the middle of the windswept, snow-choked driveway for hours on end, hurling shovel after shovel-full into the yard, and feel mighty superior to my wimpy neighbors as they crept out of their comfy dens, pushed their put-puts up and down their driveways a few times, and timidly retreated back inside while I toiled on and on outdoors like a REAL MAN! Now, I'll be no better than they are.

However, I console myself with the knowledge that now my dear wife won't have to confront a snow emergency when I'm not around, with nothing but a shovel in her hand. In fact, now that I think of it, she won't have to do that even when I am around. She'll be able to drive that sucker up and down the driveway all by herself, while I protect my delicate constitution inside, lending her moral support and preparing hot chocolate to keep her going.

Guess I'm still a REAL MAN after all! ;-)

Thanksgiving: We Gather Together

Here it is, Thanksgiving again--and here I am blogging about it again (my very first substantive post was about Thanksgiving)!

As a child, Thanksgiving was my second-favorite holiday, just behind Christmas (of course). First on the agenda, as it was every weekday that I wasn't in school, was Captain Kangaroo. That day's show always had a Thanksgiving theme, as you might expect. What was really memorable about it, though, was that at the end of the program the usual kids' set was replaced with a large dining table, which the cast would set, cover with traditional food, and then sit and PRAY (or at least pretend to pray) over--on national network television! (where was the FCC? where was the ACLU?) While that scene was unfolding, you'd hear a choir singing the beautiful hymn "We Gather Together" (more on that below). Ever after, whenever I hear that hymn, I think of the Captain and that moving scene, and it's become synonymous with Thanksgiving for me (and I'm not the only one who remembers this).

After that, it was several hours of televised Thanksgiving Day parades--Macy's from New York--with the big balloons!--the J.L. Hudson's Parade from Detroit, and the Santa Claus Parade from Toronto. On CBS you got some of all three, winding up with Santa at the end of the Toronto parade. For several years in the mid-1960s, Captain Kangaroo and crew hosted the Macy's Parade. And back then, they were real parades with marching bands and floats, instead of the static stage numbers and remote studio drivel you (not me, as I don't watch it any more) see today. Ah, for the good old days!

And then, in the afternoon, it was off to Grandma and Grandpa's for the Big Event--dinner! Not only our six with them, of course, but you had to add my uncles/aunts and their children, as well as Grandma's sisters and a cousin or two. So, you'd generally have anywhere from 18 to two dozen people there. With extra tables and chairs the "board" stretched all the way across the dining room and well into the living room! I don't think I graduated all the way to the "adult" table in the dining room until the last couple of Thanksgiving dinners there, in the mid-1970s. The turkey, stuffing, squash, and pies (that's a VERY abbreviated list) were always perfect! I can still smell it all in my mind's, ah, "nose."

<Here insert repeated-ad-nauseum story of how I dropped onto the sidewalk Mom's painstakingly-wrought layered jello dessert on our way into Grandma's house one year, while trying to hang onto a stack of books with the other hand.>

Grandma and Grandpa, and a few others of our wonderful old extended family, are passed on now. And we children and grandchildren are now scattered to widely to meet very often at holidays. But we all still gather together, here or from afar, in person or in our hearts, on Thanksgiving.

*****

Speaking of gathering, I wanted to share a little bit about that ultimate Thanksgiving hymn, We Gather Together. It has a rich and compelling history all its own, as related in this Wikipedia article:

We Gather Together is a Christian hymn of Netherlands origin written in 1597 by Adrianus Valerius (pka François Valéry) as Wilt Heden Nu Treden to celebrate the Dutch victory over Spanish forces in the Battle of Turnhout. It was originally set to a Dutch folk tune. In the United States, it is popularly associated with Thanksgiving Day and is often sung at family meals and at religious services on that day.

At the time the hymn was written, the Dutch were engaged in a war of national liberation against the Catholic King Philip II of Spain. "Wilt heden nu treden," "We gather together" resonated because under the Spanish King, Dutch Protestants were forbidden to gather for worship. The hymn first appeared in print in a 1626 collection of Dutch patriotic songs, "Nederlandtsch Gedencklanck."

The hymn is customarily performed to a tune known as "Kremser", from Eduard Kremser's 1877 score arrangement and lyric translation of Wilt Heden Nu Treden into Latin and German. The modern English text was written by Theodore Baker in 1894.

According to the Hymn Society in the United States and Canada, "We Gather Together's" first appearance in an American hymnal was in 1903. It had retained popularity among the Dutch, and when the Dutch Reformed Church in North America decided in 1937 to abandon the policy that they had brought with them to the New World in the 1600s of singing only psalms and add hymns to the church service, "We Gather Together" was chosen as the first hymn in the first hymnal.

The hymn steadily gained popularity, especially in services of Thanksgiving on such occasions as town and college centennial celebrations. According to Carl Daw, executive director of the Hymn Society, the "big break" came in 1935 when it was included in the national hymnal of the Methodist-Episcopal Church.

According to Michael Hawn, professor of sacred music at Southern Methodist University's Perkins School of Theology, "by World War I, we started to see ourselves in this hymn," and the popularity increased during World War II, when "the wicked oppressing" were understood to include Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan.

This hymn is generally sung at American churches the day before Thanksgiving.

This hymn was sung at the Opening of the Funeral Mass for Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

Here for your listening pleasure (the "video" is static, but this was the best choral performance I could find on YouTube) is "We Gather Together." The text appears below the video--and let's remember to recite in our prayers that last, stirring line, "O Lord, make us free!"



We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing;
He chastens and hastens His will to make known.
The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing.
Sing praises to His Name; He forgets not His own.

Beside us to guide us, our God with us joining,
Ordaining, maintaining His kingdom divine;
So from the beginning the fight we were winning;
Thou, Lord, were at our side, all glory be Thine!

We all do extol Thee, Thou Leader triumphant,
And pray that Thou still our Defender will be.
Let Thy congregation escape tribulation;
Thy Name be ever praised! O Lord, make us free!

Leaf Me A Lawn

Before the crisp, golden weeks of autumn merge into the cold, gray months of winter here in Western New York, a solemn ritual must be performed by almost every homeowner: the Raking of the Leaves. There are those in contempt of virtue who have turned it into the Blowing of the Leaves or the Mowing of the Leaves, but they aren't worthy of attention. The rest of us measure our manhood in barrels or bags filled, or tarpfuls hauled, and in this department at least I can stand with the best of any half-acre man. This year I got almost the entire job done in one weekend, thanks to the efforts of my lovely assistant Melany.

In the past, I could count on the "help" of my children: in their younger years, mostly to jump and roll around in my piles to make sure they didn't get too tall, and as teenagers to grumble and amaze me with their magical vanishing acts (which is why I have no photographic evidence of their help in those years).

(UPDATE: The picture of Colin (left) and Robert immediately above has been added so as not to exclude our beloved youngest son from our leaf-raking memories--the leaves around that swing certainly needed raking!)

Then the children left the nest and I faced this enormous task all by myself (except for the aforementioned efforts of my lovely assistant Melany). But this year, I had help from a new source: Frank the Tank, Greyhound Extraordinaire! Melany brought him outside where I was raking in the front yard; he took one look at the blue plastic tarp I was raking leaves onto, and knew in his heart that we had put it all there just for him. Into the pile he dove, thrashing about in delight, and flashed me a look that said, "Try to get me out of here and I'll bite your arm off."

So, we let him stay and even rubbed his belly as he rolled around in the leaves. Just like the children, he lost interest after a little while, and I was able to finish the front yard.

Today, Melany let Frank out in the back as I was dragging myself through the last part of The Struggle. He took one look at the small mountain range of leaf piles I had built up in the empty lot beside our house, and tore into them like a cannon ball--then jumped, rolled, and buried himself in them for a good five minutes before charging out again and shaking off the bits clinging to his coat. It was so hilarious, Melany decided that we should try to "videotape" the scene with our digital camera, if we could get Frank to do an encore performance. After calling my son in Buffalo to talk me through how to do this, we coaxed Frank back into the leaves. Of course, he now adopted a coolly indifferent air as you might expect from a teenager, and contented himself with burrowing into the nearest pile and letting us heap more leaves on him. Perhaps it was just as well that he didn't play about more vigorously, because one viewing this my very first video recording would think we were in the middle of a 9.5 magnitude earthquake at the time. I'll let you judge for yourself below, and enjoy the antics of our latest four-legged "child."

When the Frost is on the Punkin

Yep, it's that time of year! Crisp, spicy air; expanses of red and gold leaves everywhere; Indian corn, squash, and pumpkins abounding; the pungent aroma and sweet taste of apple cider. Even the sun shines occasionally here in western New York! Nothing better captures the sights, sounds, and spirit of the fall season than the poem When the Frost is on the Punkin by American folk poet James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1912). So, to brighten your day, here's the next best thing to visiting a farm in harvest!

WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here--
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock--
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover over-head!--
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me--
I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock--
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Autumn in New York

One of the finest things about living in upstate New York (I know you were thinking, "I didn't imagine there were any.") is Autumn--or Fall, if you prefer. If you ask people who live around here what their favorite season is, this will be the answer 8 of 10 times. In many ways it's mine, too, except for the knowledge that Autumn--which is all too brief here, functionally running from mid-September to about mid-November, when the snowflakes usually start falling--is inevitably followed by interminable Winter. So, one feels a need to savor the season and wring from it every last particle of Fall-ness, before the brilliant colors and that spicy nip in the air turn suddenly to gray-brown and just plain icy. There are a host of ways to do that around here, from the Oktoberfest in Irondequoit that begins in mid-September (you read that right; no one knows why it isn't "Septemberfest") through umpteen fall/apple/pumpkin festivals, corn mazes, and cider presses, to the haunted/scary houses that abound locally around Halloween (we scrupulously avoid those--too scary).

This past Saturday Melany and I kicked off our observance of "Autumn in New York 2009" by attending the annual AppleUmpkin Festival in Wyoming, New York. That's a small village in the hill country southwest of Rochester, about a 45-minute drive from our home in Brockport. The trip itself is breathtaking this time of year, and yields vistas like the one below.

"Downtown" Wyoming (only 513 people live the whole community) is well known as "Gaslight Village," a quaint area lit by old-fashioned gas street lamps that are fueled by deposits of natural gas directly underground. The one-weekend festival attracts thousands of visitors to the hosts of craft, food, and other vendors whose booths crowd the main street and nearby fields, as well as to the local shops. Some of the vendors' booths are quite cleverly named!

Needless to say, there are apples and pumpkins in profusion--hence the name "AppleUmpkin."

Also noteworthy in the area are lovely gingerbread houses,


stately inns,

and churches dating from the early and mid-19th century.

We spent most of our time in Wyoming just strolling around, watching the other festival goers (there were almost as many dogs being pushed in strollers as babies!), and poking our heads into booths now and then. The one thought that occurred to me again and again: how blessed we all are to live in America! Where else could so many different people from so many places congregate peacefully and happily with their families and friends, in such a beautiful spot, just to enjoy their little corner of life and to share that fleeting magic time we call Autumn?

We did pick up several books for a dollar each at the local public library's used book booth (two history books for me--natch, and some craft and gardening books for Melany). I resisted the temptation to shell out $8.50 for a grape pie (the signature confection of the Finger Lakes region this time of year), which left us just enough cash to buy a beautiful fall garland for hanging in the dining room. All tuckered out, we headed back home through the countryside once again. A perfect Autumn excursion!

We hope to sally forth for more Fall adventures in the coming month, and we'll share them with you if and when we do. Till then, here's the "other" Autumn in New York--Vernon Duke’s marvelous jazz composition written for the 1934 show Thumbs Up! This version is by the incomparable Billie Holiday. I acknowledge that Lady Day (as she was called) is an acquired taste, but if you listen to her enough, you'll come to appreciate that her voice and singing style were tailor-made for jazz. Besides, this was the only rendition I could find paired with a good video of seasonal scenes in the Empire State! So sit back and enjoy all the facets of Autumn in New York!