There was a time in the not-so-distant past when most societies were agrarian for purely prqctical reasons; far more people lived outside urban areas than within them. A time when people lived in villages, and farms radiated out from the villages. At that time it was common, whether in North America, Europe or the Far East for people to live in the same house they were born in; at the very least, never to leave the village where they were born. Houses were handed down to the oldest child in the family, and others lived with them, or built modest houses of their own nearby.

When we lived for a few years in Atlanta, our youngest son took a summer research position with Emory University, working out of a research facility located in North Carolina, at the border between Georgia and North Carolina. His research took him  in close proximity to nearby small towns, and one day he came across an elderly man who could have posed for the iconic painting 'American Gothic' all on his own. They talked for a short while; the research site was adjacent to farmland that had been in the man's family for generations. He had never, ever left the area even for a visit elsewhere.

It would make for some interesting research in our current universal 'movable society' the percentage of people regionally who leave their place of birth to settle elsewhere.  How many people, for example, could count owning or living in more than three or four houses in their lifetime. We're currently living in our fourth house, although we've lived in more than four; the others not our own. We no longer live in the city where we were born because professional life mandated we move elsewhere.

The world has changed immensely since we were young. It's said that every 30 years technology itself makes great leaps forward changing not only people's lives but society itself in its interchangeability and greater fusion with the global community. Just the fact alone that in our personal lifespan we saw the appearance of motorized vehicles making horse-drawn conveyances redundant, that the wonder of telephone communication has given way to cellphones and iPhones, that letter-writing has lost its vogue to instant internet communication, that people can 'visit' other countries' residents and converse with them halfway around the world.

We've been to many other places, lived in some, and returned to our country of origin, if not the city where we were born.  At our age there is a diminished desire to travel; not because of lack of curiosity and the attractiveness of being elsewhere from time to time, but because we're comfortable and we're busily engaged right where we are in a location that offers us the best of all possible worlds.

 

Our children have long gone on to pursue their own lives and their connection to us while familial, familiar and affectionate, is peripheral to their lives. You might say that our two little dogs representing a succession of such companions, have more or less filled a gap. They've become our companions and a massive load of caring and affection emanates from us to them and vice-versa. 

Pedestrian concerns like the weather concern us daily. Will it be a good day for a walk in the forest with Jackie and Jillie? Will we be rained out, will it be too cold in sub-zero winter temperature with a raging wind and snow falling thick as fog? Well, there are few days and few weather conditions that keep us from those daily forays into nature with our little companions.

Today was a pleasant day, fully overcast, with a high temperature of 12C, and slight wind. And although the forest landscape is one of approaching winter, it continues to attract and reward us as we make our way through a maze of intersecting trails. In the process coming across other people wedded to the idea of spending time in nature's ample bosom, taking advantage of the scrubbed air, hearing birdsong, admiring the daily-changing appearance of the forest.

 

And you never know what you may come across that's interesting, amusing, instructive and worthwhile. For example, today we watched incredulously as an older German shepherd mix of a modest size confidently and energetically trod a trail we were on, carrying firmly in his jaw a partial log. No mere stick this, it would do a fireplace proud. It was thick and it was long and must have weighed considerable, yet the dog pranced happily along with it. At one point he placed it gently on the forest floor, looked around, then retrieved it and followed in the boot steps of its human companion.

So yesterday Irving neatly packed all the summer furniture that stood on the deck into the larger of our two garden sheds. It's where he stores winter tires, the snow blower, lawn mower, ladders and the two sets of scaffolding he used to install the upperstory stained glass windows years ago. In fact the scaffolding, meant to stack one on top of the other, came in handy for quite a few jobs bringing him up to the height of about fifteen feet or more. 

He had re-arranged the shed contents to make room for the furniture: two rattan armchairs, a loveseat and a lounge and a glass-topped table, along with the cushions that went with the seating arrangement. Irving had bought the set early this spring, then put it together to replace older similar furniture that had finally outlived their practical use.

There was a time actually, when we used that furniture daily. Despite the new furniture being more comfortable than the old ones, they were scarcely used this summer. We can't have sat out on the deck, using them more than a few days the entire summer. Just too busy. Too engrossed in other things. Which leads me to the conclusion that we work too hard and don't relax enough. We relax when we're reading, when we're online. Otherwise we find things to do or that we think we are required to do.

But now they're all securely stored away for the winter. Not that having done so, our work winterizing the outside is done. Today Irving was out cutting circular 'tops' out of plywood to place over the larger of our garden pots before covering them with plastic. Without the plywood tops, the weight of ice and snow on the plastic kind of defeats the use of it. In previous years Irving had assembled most of the pots under the deck or in a section of the patio at the front of the house and covered them all with a good heavy tarp to preserve them in good shape. No matter how he chooses to safeguard their structural integrity it involves work. We'd have even more of them to deal with if we hadn't given many of them away to some of our neighbours over the past ten years.

And aside from household interior cleaning, I finished scooping the soil out of the pots to trundle it over to the backyard and scatter it along the back fence. Jackie and Jillie were very patient, snuffling about here and there until it got too boring, then following us and taking pains to remind us they're with us and it's time for a ravine hike. A really quite nice day with sun most of the early part of the day and a temperature that nudged all the way up to 14C, and a tolerable wind.

Still, cool enough to put a soup on to cook for dinner, and this time I decided on a pulse mixture of lima beans, split peas, pot barley, lentils and pinto beans. It's a dry mix of peas/beans that don't need overnight pre-soaking. In the soup went chopped garlic cloves, sliced leeks simmered in olive oil, celery, mushrooms, and yam in a beef soup base. I put it on just before we left for the ravine, so it could simmer under a very low heat.

By the time we left for the ravine the sky had welcomed light fluffy white clouds and the sun reappeared from time to time. It felt mild on the street but that soon changed as we delved into the ravine and accessed the forest trails. It felt considerably colder, so it was just as well we had girded ourselves adequately against a day where the absence of afternoon sun made 14C seem somewhat colder in the shadow of the tree canopy, even one as denuded as it now appears.

Dusk enters the forest confines early on these days. With the switch from 'daylight saving' on November 6, we're also heading into even shorter afternoon daytimes, when nightfall begins around 4:30 p.m., a much-hated and no-longer-reasonable switch to take advantage presumably of longer daylight hours by starting earlier in the day. A move said to have originated with the wish to give farming communities more lighted working hours. We've become a largely urbanized society from original agrarian societies.

Modern-day farmers see no need for the continued switches, but until it becomes universally rejected it's destined to continue, irrespective of the disaffection among the public and rumblings from different levels of government toward dropping it from time to time.

By the time we left the ravine this afternoon the sun was fairly low in the horizon and in another hour it would be gone for the day. We have to mentally gird ourselves to the prospect of leaving the ravine on many days when we set out late, when dusk is about to meet up with night-time dark, working up to December 21, the shortest day of the year in our hemisphere. Between the present and another month to come, we'll see some spectacular sunsets of fiery skies presaging the dark shade of night clanging down on us.

 

Another night of -3C, so whatever somehow evaded the frost 'kiss of death' the night before succumbed finally last night. I was almost fearful of glancing out the front door for a\confirmation when we came downstairs for breakfast. A later, closer look when we were outdoors revealed that the spunky little rose in the garden bed at the very front of the house close to the street was thriving, frost or no frost. Cold weather seems to spur it to putting out buds and more buds, flowering in exquisite shades of ivory, yellow and pink, along with the occasional white-and-pink-speckled flower. 

 

At a time when everything else is the garden succumbs to the inevitable threshold of winter, that tiny rose shrub perks up and delights us. The classical 'stone' urn standing on the porch with its central dracaena and begonias still thrives; proximity to the house makes the difference for its longevity. The blue 'headlight' lobelias that had been planted around the begonias have long since departed; then the begonias spread and absorbed their space. 

That urn remains intact along with another on the porch rail that I bypassed when I was plucking out all of the limp, wet remnants of annual flowering plants that had been so cheerfully triumphant against the first overnight trials just flirting with frost. Today Irving and I addressed ourselves to the serious business of completing the annual fall disassembling of summer life. The garden furniture put away into the larger of our two garden sheds while I went about harvesting the annuals, emptying the garden pots of soil and wheelbarrowing it to the backyard.

 

It helped of course that the day turned out brightly beautiful, with an afternoon high of 10C, but minus wind, and the golden orb in the sky casting its brilliant warmth down on a grateful landscape. There's still more work to be done; the last of the garden pots emptied of soil, and all of them along with the garden statuary covered with plastic. At that juncture we can breathe a sigh of relief that the garden is prepared for winter. It always seems that there's so much more work disassembling the garden than doing the spring planting.

 

The sublime weather called us to tend to Jackie and Jillie's polite request to get going on our ravine hike for the day, and we were happy to oblige. Jillie lets the entire street know that her majesty is out and about; all the way up the street to the approach of the ravine she emits a series of anticipatory barks. There's a kind of ritual involved where before we plunge into the ravine Irving offers the first of a cache of tiny cookies to our pups, and then halfway down the first incline, another. Should he forget, they remind  him.

 

The forest beckoned the community today, and those who responded could not have been disappointed. Like yesterday we saw a good number of people out with children or with dorgs, or both, likely ten of these groups for the period we were out, similar to the numbers we encountered yesterday, with nary a frown in sight.

 

It's strange how childhood memories long submerged deep in our subconscious can suddenly rise to the surface and startle us. Like the recollection of how when we were very young and played on the street with other children, we took notice of odd-looking automobiles appearing on the streets, at the same time that horse-drawn delivery carts still outnumbered personal vehicles and trucks. Irving remembers with me that running after these carts had their rewards, picking up hot tar and chewing it. Waiting for shards of ice to be available when the iceman used a pick to cut huge blocks to size to fit into a household's icebox.

 

These memories begin to float to the surface as we get older. Today I suddenly recalled when my family lived in a second-floor flat comprised of a tiny kitchen, a shared household bathroom, a tiny room that was my sister's and my bedroom, and a larger room that was my parents' bedroom that we also used for a kind of living room, listening together Friday night to the radio program "The Shadow Knows". The third bedroom was rented to a single older man, and the house owners lived with their two sons on the bottom floor.

I attended a school directly across the street, I believe it was called Manning Street Public School. And up the street lived a family in a large house behind which was a factory that produced seltzer water and soft drinks: Dominion Soft Drinks, owned by the family. There were four girls in the family, the youngest my age and whom I hoped would be my friend. Not just my friend, my firmly-committed best friend. My ardour was not reciprocated. It wouldn't be until years later when, at age 14, I met Irving. Finally I had a best friend.

 

My best friend and I are settling into the approach to winter. Last night we enjoyed an old staple; fish and chips, where I bake a half side of Pacific salmon, oven-'fry' potato chips and present that with asparagus tips, instead of the paella I've been making lately that finds great favour with us. Today, another traditional meal; chicken soup, chicken and potato pudding.

 

I had decided to bake a cheesecake for dessert. And to dress the top with a blueberry glaze. A two-step-preparation confection to close out our meal. We need heftier meals now, since we've been returned to mid-fall weather. The brief period of Indian summer we basked in for the past four-five days is gone. Last night the temperature dipped to -3C. Enough of a hard frost to finalize the presence of blooming annuals. The begonias that have so delighted us this past month have been frost-burned, they're drooping pathetically, the merest shadow of their former presence. Tomorrow is scheduled for finishing the garden clean-up.

 

Yesterday afternoon when I was tidying up the garden I did lift a number of the annuals, but hadn't the heart to harvest them all since they were so fresh-looking and beautiful. All it took to change that was one night of sub-zero temperature.

In the afternoon we set out as is usual for us, to take Jackie and Jillie for their romp through the ravine. All the vegetation on the forest floor has suffered a similar fate to that of the garden annuals. The deciduous trees have followed suit; barely any trees still bearing leaves. Those that still jealously cling to their foliage tend to be saplings, immature trees that often hold on to their leaves right through the winter.

 

Today's ramble through the ravine was easily the most frigid yet, this fall; crisp and intrusively cold. But the sun was out warming the landscape with its brilliant light. The temperature was 8C, but lacking the ferocity of yesterday's wind bursts. We were surprised by the numbers of people out with their companion dogs. Perhaps the result of knowing there won't be many days left of such intense sunlight to illuminate what is left of the forest leafmass. Which is not much.

 

By the time dinnertime rolled around yesterday we needed some comforting. The double-injection site where we were given both our annual flu shot and the newly-approved bivalent COVID/Omicron booster shot was becoming extremely uncomfortable. The comfort we sought came in the form of a hot, fragrant soup. Earlier in the day I had made the first preparations, cubing and toasting slices of old sourdough bread slathered with butter, garlic powder and grated Parmesan to an aromatic, crisp light brown.  

 

When we returned from our ravine ramble with Jackie and Jillie in the late afternoon I put on the onion soup to cook with onions so fresh and dense I really had to press hard with a sharp knife to get the slices I needed; the garlic clove was far more accommodating. Assembling the soup at the last minute requires no time at all, and the fragrance of it wafting from the little counter-top oven through the kitchen assured us we'd soon be feeling better. A fresh vegetable salad prefacing the soup and a fruit salad of pears, plums and kiwis kind of bookended the meal.

 

After dinner the glow of comfort began to fade and the ache in our upper left arm grew. Once in bed it seemed to subside, but when we woke in the morning it was even more intense. That was not to last; as soon as we got going with the day's routine, while the site remained tender to the touch the pain was wholly alleviated. 

Except for the fact that our too-brief flirtation with Indian Summer suddenly came to an abrupt end. Yesterday's 21C on a bright sunny day is now a fond memory. We're back into deep fall, with 50mph bursts of wind and a daytime high temperature of 9C. But sunny, and that makes a difference. A slightly unbalanced difference, however, since the sun wasn't quite able to mellow the effect of the wind and cold.

 

For Jackie and Jillie that meant back to wearing their little sweaters. For us, warm jackets as we forged our way into the afternoon through forest trails where the wind slightly abated and the scene that met our eyes was one of an absence of leaves on all the deciduous trees. The first thing I noticed when we came down to breakfast this morning was that our beautiful old magnolia had shed all its leaves, as did the three ornamental crabs. The weeping mulberries will be next since we're expecting -2C to hit tonight.

 

As we descended into the ravine we met up with one of our neighbours ascending the trail to street level. He lives even closer to the forest than we do, his backyard actually backs on to it; our house is located across the street from his. He's lived on the street as long as we have and he's never been in the ravine before. He's decided that from now on, he'll make it a daily practise to take himself for a trek through the ravine in the realization that it would add enormously to the status of his future health.

 

Even that raging wind that mostly surged through the height of the tree canopy no longer sent down showers of leaves. On occasion a lonely little leaf would come swirling down to find its place among the piles on the forest floor of its cousins, lost in the crowd of the leaf mass already beginning to crumble and take on that uniform dismal appearance shed of colour.

 

When we arrived back home, Jackie and Jillie gobbled up their vegetable salad treat and I took myself back out to the garden. Still cutting back hosta leaves and hydrangeas. But mostly to sweep and gather up the thick layers of fallen foliage engulfing our walkway from the freshly-barren trees. It was light fall maintenance clean-up and despite the cold and the penetrating wind it just felt invigorating to be out there, busying about.

 

 

Although I did pluck some of the annuals for composting, it's just not yet possible to do any of that with the everblooming begonias. They're determined to live up to their names, even in this kind of inclement weather. They remain fresh and vibrant looking, crowding the garden urns and pots and the garden beds as well. It remains to be seen how well they'll be able to carry on given oncoming nights of ever-increasing frost levels. Until then, they'll remain in place to continue delighting us with their presence.

 

 

 

 

It's been almost tropical-feeling today, so warm and though windy, humid. There was light overnight rain, and the cloud cover seemed determined place its lid on the sky, with occasional bursts of sun for brief intervals before the day set itself stolidly into a heavy overcast. But that's it, no more Indian Summer. Tomorrow we're back to an afternoon high of 11C. Compare that to today's 21C...

This unusual mild weather was brief but hugely appreciated. It hasn't stopped the trees from releasing their colourful foliage from bondage to their branches. Now, most of the deciduous  trees in the forest are bare or almost there. And the intense, eye-dazzling colours have given way to desiccated, dark remnants of once-glorious foliage, emptied from the crowns of  trees to the forest floor below.

 

This turned out to be a busy day with more accomplished than we realized would be the case. Yesterday we filled out all the forms required to secure appointments for each of us -- together -- to receive this flu season's vaccine. And because of our age we qualified for the 'super' vaccine. Which our own family doctor was unable to provide for us, since it was explained to us it just wasn't available; supply problems.

Strange this is. Our experience this past two years has been that the municipal health department which steadfastly urged residents to contact them to schedule for COVID vaccine appointments could give us only awkward time-place appointments and none too efficiently. Whereas, by calling our local pharmacies with far less bureaucracy we were able to secure the appropriate vaccines of our choice through the services offered by pharmacies.

 

Our appointment was for 1:40 this afternoon. Although when I was filling out all the 'paperwork' on line the question/offer arose to simultaneously receive the latest bivalent COVID/Omicron variant shots. Through Ottawa public health there was never a choice of manufacture, through the pharmacy there is. Since it's only been five months, not the required six between shots since we had our second booster, we bypassed that offer.

However, while we were awaiting our flu shot at the pharmacy, the matter of the COVID shot came up, and we were advised we could proceed with having it done as well. More paperwork, this time right at the pharmacy and in no time at all we were ushered into the little private booth used for the administration of vaccines and both were delivered to us. While we were 'waiting' afterward as requested before leaving we were given the print-out, and snuck out.

 

To another pharmacy in the same plaza which was advertising vitamins on sale; buy one, get 50% off a second. So that worked for Vitamin D3 and B12 and Aspirin. Two of each. We prefer 2500 IUs of D.

Then Irving went to the bank, and I delivered a few bags of clothing to our local Salvation Army thrift shop. Done!

The puppies were exuberant with gratitude to see us back again, and we promised them a romp through the ravine was in order, instanter. And that's where we found ourselves not long after our return home. No wasting such a magnificent weather day. The leaves down on the forest floor are fast fading to black and swiftly drying to that traditional crisp appearance that creates that crunch so familiar to us from our childhood. 

 

The acrid odour so redolent of fall, reflective of the drying leaf tannin took us back through the past where over so many years we roamed together through woodlands loving the sounds and smells and appearance of this season. We had always, together, valued any opportunity to immerse ourselves into a natural landscape, to walk at leisure and discover manifestations of 'natural' life left behind as ever more of our time graduated to an urban lifestyle.  Perhaps it's not surprising that in our elder years we gravitated to the best of all possible worlds; an urban/suburban domicile adjacent a natural forested ravine.

 

An unseasonably warm, moisture-saturated day today, we awoke to heavy mist with the lightest of sprinkles settling over every surface after a dawn rain. Light though the fall of minuscule drops were, as we drove out to do our weekly shopping, we needed the windshield wipers to clear away the mirage of a landscape dimmed by misty rain. When we left the supermarket the sun made a brief appearance, then acceded to gathering clouds.

 

 

Checking my email after breakfast there was a notification from the health clinic that our family doctor works out of, informing us that they had received this season's flu vaccine, and we would be well advised to make an appointment for vaccination. When Irving called, he was informed that the special 'super' flu vaccine mean for the elderly, the infirm, the immunity-compromised or people with chronic illnesses was not available. 

 

It was in short supply, the receptionist explained, difficult to come by, and they had not received any of it for their patients who fell into the category of those for whom it is recommended. The generic vaccine for flu would have to do. The next call Irving made was to our pharmacy, and yes, they certainly had the super flu vaccine and would make it available to anyone over age 65 or vulnerable to the virus because of a medical condition, on appointment.

 

Appointments must however, be made online. So don't ask how long it took for me to make those appointments. Where our doctor's office could offer nothing before the second week of November, the pharmacy could give us an appointment as soon as we'd like to come in. After of course going through the lengthy rigamarole of filling out an application and questionnaire online. We chose tomorrow at 1:10 p.m. After completing the necessary forms which took an interminable period of irritating time, we were informed through the app that someone had just taken that time slot. 

So, a repeat of part of the scheduling was undertaken by an increasingly annoyed me, and we were confirmed for 30 minutes later in the day. An email confirmed the appointment at our location of choice at the time that was most convenient for us. The pharmacy, at the same time offered the convenience of the upgraded bivalant Omicron shot for COVID, should we be interested. But we won't qualify until the second week of November, so we left that for another time. 

 

 

So much for general practitioners whose practice in the last several decades has become increasingly degraded in the types of health and medical services other than prescriptions for various types of tests and appointments with medical specialists, in comparison to what a family doctor once was accustomed to offering patients.

 

Annoyance set aside, we went off to the ravine on this warm, humid day. Where vanishing few leaves are left on the branches of deciduous trees of the forest canopy. Seeming to go in an instant from a glowing mass of bright shades of fall colour, to a sternly sere landscape of grey and black. 

A delightful landscape turned all too soon to 'bleh'! Not that Jackie and Jillie notice. Their attention is taken primarily by enticing odours that inform them plentifully of things that occur we have no knowledge of whatever. That, and the smell of approaching friends and/or strangers. All of whom merit a sharp volley of barks. High-pitched barks that can resonate with either 'Hi there, pals!', or 'What're you doing in OUR  ravine'?!

Since we had bowls of steaming hot lentil soup served with warm cheesy-sesame-seed croissants for dinner yesterday, I decided to make a small eye-of-round roast today, with a Yorkshire pudding, accompanied by acorn squash. One of my most favourite soups. Irving prefers split-pea soup but they're on the agenda too, as we move into winter fare and an increase in the number of meals featuring soups 

The thing about lentil or other types of pulses made into soup, you always add vegetables to add vitamins and minerals and texture and colour, too. This lentil soup had red lentils, garlic clove, onion, celery, carrot, yam and tomatoes included as well as Marsala for special oomph so it  had plenty of character, not to mention flavour. I always blend these soups with an immersion blender so the contents are well integrated and the texture dense.

I had planned days ago for that meal, and so had made a bread dough and set it aside in the refrigerator. Which was an efficiency I often rely upon when time is tight. The bread dough had sesame seed added to it and I grated sharp cheddar into the flattened dough, preparing it for croissants. The fragrance of the soup along with the baking croissants certainly stirs up an appetite.

Today, another busy day of house-cleaning. We had an afternoon ravine hike with Jackie and Jillie, hardly believing how balmy the atmosphere was, with a slight breeze, beaming sun and 18C. It's a bonus that there remains colour on the trees in some areas of the forest, while others have been drained of their colour, the high winds of the previous days ripping foliage from their perches.

Though the wind was light while we were out, it still stirred through the almost-denuded trees bringing down leisurely drifts of floating confetti-leaves. Some areas of the forest landscape look sere and colourless with blacks and greys of tree trunks prevailing, their green crowns entirely absent. It takes some getting used to.

Until snow begins to fly in about three-four weeks or so it's what the landscape will look like; sere, and bleak, the conifers offering the only colour to relieve the monotones of grey-black. It's when you begin longing for snow to make its presence to lighten the landscape.

 

The perennialy longed-for but still unexpected fall gift from nature has arrived. And it's taken us by surprise, even though we've been accustomed to their occurrences most falls, when the ambient temperature is reduced from frigid to balmy and the winds seem more like breezes than imperious aggression. We've gone from afternoon highs of 6C, and night-time lows of 0C, to this afternoon's high of 18C. Where two days ago we bundled up against the cold, heading out for our daily ravine jaunts, today a light cotton jacket sufficed.

 

We basked in the warmth and light of a benevolent sun casting its blessings down upon us -- light, white wisps of cloud swirling through the wide blue sky. My frenetic activity yesterday afternoon trying to wrap up the gardens for their winter sleep and not coming close yet to finishing the job sees a reprieve. If this weather means to linger for a week, even more, I should have ample time to get the job done.

 

I used a wheelbarrow myself yesterday when trundling the garden soil from the huge garden pots at the front garden over to the back garden for disposal. The emptied pots will be assembled and covered with a protective tarp overwinter. Accumulated snow will build up around and over them. I've still tons of perrennials to cut back. Now, I'll have the time to do all of it, graciously offered by this mediating weather event.

 

But it was the industrial-size/weight wheelbarrows of the fencing crew that left us with huge sticky clods of clay all over the walkways. Thanks to the weather, Irving saw an opportunity this morning to get out with a hoe, a long-handled scrub-brush, the garden hose and pails of soapy water to scrape it all off, then wash it down, returning an ugly mess back to its 'clean' condition where neither we nor the puppies will track the muck into the house any longer.

 

We went off to the ravine with Jackie and Jillie after we both completed our household work for the day. I've planned for a lentil-vegetable soup and sesame-seed/cheese croissants with smoked salmon for dinner. Both to be prepared on our return from the forest. It's the kind of soup I use an immersion blender with to render it into a smooth slurry. And the croissants to go into the oven just a short while before dinnertime.

 

Colours in the ravine are fast being drained, the foliage on the forest floor transitioning to that dark, bleak grey, the leaves crisping as they dehydrate and become this year's compost over generations of fall foliage enriching the soil of the forest. What had fallen and had been bright gold, red and orange, is now becoming a uniform dark grey. Novembr is like that; dark and grey, and it's on the way.

In the meantime, however, we're into Indian Summer, and very much appreciated. Anyone we encountered in the ravine today had big smiles on their faces. The atmosphere was so balmy, the wind so gentle, no one could sustain a bad mood. 

 

When we returned home and did a walkthrough of the garden, we marbelled at the fresh flowering presence of dahlias and begonias. I had meant to leave them rather than compost them until the very last minute. Which would be when the cold and penetrating frost had finally established in the ground. The flowers look so fresh and beautifully colourful it would represent a botanicl crime to shorten their lifespan, so I won't, just yet.