Jackie and Jillie certainly have selective memories. It's Sunday and they know what's for breakfast. We're all creatures of habit and things fall into place in the sense that certain routines are expected to occur at certain times; it just makes life simpler. They were expecting their treat, one of their favourites. Jillie ate her breakfast this morning, but Jackie turned up his nose -- literally -- at his, although the kibble was made a little more enticing with bits of breakfast melon chopped into it, along with cooked chicken left over from Friday. 

 

He was holding out for pancakes and sausages. He leapt up on the settle in the breakfast room, craning his head around to the stove where I was flipping pancakes, awaiting his treat. His sister sat patiently at my feet, emitting that barely perceptible whine that she reserves for anxiously awaiting special edible treats. Finally after being presented with their treats, Jackie turned his attention to his breakfast and finished it off.

 

 

Today was supposed to be a more leisurely day of rest than yesterday proved to be. Sunny, windy and cold, it was a perfect day to work in the garden to complete winterizing it. Cutting back the last of the hostas, those beautiful plants that look after themselves all summer, but come fall get cut back so when spring eventually returns they're ready to begin growing anew. We've got so many hostas, many of them decades and decades old, and they're huge. It's quite a job winterizing them. Unlike the heucheras that often keep them company that need no attention.

 

The garden pots and urns needed to be emptied of the soil that annuals grew beautifully in all summer. Wheelbarrows full of good soil were taken to the backyard to be smoothed over the garden beds there. Come spring fresh composted soil will fill the pots and urns so that freshly-grown annuals will get a good start for their summer-long flowering.

 

 

Fall garden preparations mean that garden statuary, the urns and the garden pots need winter protection. The next step was to cover them all with a protective plastic sheeting secured by bunjies against snow, freezing and thawing, icy conditions and rampant wind. That was done today, and once it was completed, it was time to meet the weather. A cold day of 8C, sharp wind and heavily overcast; jackets in order for everyone, and off we went for a foray through the forest trails in the ravine.

 

 

The autumn colour has just about spent itself at this point. By early November -- just around the corner -- all the deciduous trees will have shed their foliage. There's very few leaves actually left on the maple, birch, poplar and willow trees, although the beech leaves are still clinging to the trees as are the oak and sumac. The beech leaves are a bright bronze, and the sumac foliage brilliant orange-reds.

 

 

Jackie and Jillie have a penchant for running far ahead of us, although they frequently look back to ensure we're still in sight, for the most part. We usually remove their leashes as soon as we enter the trailhead up the street from our house. Most days we pretty well have the trails to ourselves, but for the past few weeks, others within the larger community have been coming out for at least one tour of the fall woods. Those who avert their heads as they come abreast of other hikers and who cannot extend an acknowledgement of the presence of others don't add much to the experience of a shared appreciation of nature.

 

 

 

To the present, this has been so far, an  unusual, although not entirely rare fall for the balmy weather we've been enjoying. Ample sun, wind and rain and temperatures oddly mild for this time of year. The temperature does drop overnight, flirting with frost, but hard frosts though on the way, haven't yet arrived.

 

 

Usually it's winter that is loathe to leave and this time it's summer, with fall struggling to assert itself. Still, each day we go out into the ravine we can see subtle changes. And lately, the acrid fragrance of drying leaves, that smell that brings back youth memories making us nostalgic over this season, has begun.

 

The last few days have been a little cooler than the low 20Cs we've become accustomed to this early fall, with a bit of a chill wind rustling through the leaves, bringing down a steady rain of pine needles, along with yellow poplar leaves and bright red maple leaves to clutter the forest floor. Soon it will take on the aspect of bright confetti.

 

The leaves are beginning to pile up though and already it's hard to see the partridgeberry that clings to the forest floor. The late wildflowers like asters are still around, though a bit wan, but gone are the fleabane, the Himalayan orchids, the goldenrod and the coneflowers along the banks of the creek and the trails mounting the hillsides.

 

From early to mid-October is the time I usually disassemble the garden, and it takes many days to prepare everything for the arrival of November, then December, when snow begins to cover the landscape. I've taken down the vines, cut back some of the perennials, the hydrangeas, black-eyed Susans and peonies, and now it's time to do the same with our many hostas sprinkled throughout the backyard garden and the extensive ones in the front garden; even the rock garden and shade garden at opposite sides of the house have to be trimmed.

 

I began on Wednesday of this week, and  continued today, taking several hours each of those days to begin the process. Today I also cut back our backyard Magnolia tree which has taken to hanging over one of our stone benches. The older climbing roses are no longer producing blooms and they've been cut back, but the shrubs that produce tiny clusters of roses are thriving, sending out beautiful little blooms.

 

I meant to continue a little longer tidying up and bringing fall order to the gardens, but suddenly it began to rain. And soon after I went into the house after putting away all the garden tools I was using and leaving the large compost bags that will be put out for pick-up tomorrow in the garden shed, thunder began. So we're getting a thunderstorm! Relieving me of the need to water the still-flourishing garden pots.