OCTOBER
By Robert Frost
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the earth with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
“Lo, there is dawning another new day. . .” It is emerging out of the shadowy mist; taking shape as the sun is hidden behind the white cover of fog that veils the hills this morning. We had the promise of a fair day, as the spectacular sunset last evening glowed red.
We were brought up on the old maxim of “red clouds at night, the sailor’s delight.” We could imagine a crew of sailors at sea, looking out at the red sunset and rejoicing in the promise of a fair day of sailing. The other quotation was, “red skies at morning, shepherds take warning.” We heard these old sayings all our lives, as well as the country dialect that we still use. As Mom would say, “It was mizzling rain this morning.”
The incomparable days of October lie before us, ready to be used as we will. I’d like to hoard these golden autumn days as a miser does his gold, hiding them away in a secret treasure chest. Then in the dead of winter, I would take one out and enjoy a day of October’s sunshine and vivid blue skies. Since that is impossible, I want to savor each day to the fullest.
As I wander down a country road, absorbing all the sights and sounds and smells of the fall season, I walk and commune with God. I see Him in the blooming of the wild asters, their blue flowers reflecting the blue of the sky. I hear Him in the song of a solitary bird, hidden somewhere in the underbrush and sending a song of praise to the Creator. I smell the sweet incense of His presence in the honeyed perfume of the wild white asters. He is very near.
Our garden is gone, but Nature gives of her best this time of year. Paw-paws are turning dark, soft and sweet. One of my grandchildren, when coaxed to “try just one” exclaimed, “Why, they taste just like custard!” Well, they are sometimes called custard apples, although the texture is more like a well-ripened banana than an apple. My late Aunt Lucille would walk a country mile for one of these ripe paw-paws.
It is the season for persimmons, but they have to be touched with frost to be soft and delicious. If you’ve ever eaten a green persimmon, you won’t make that mistake again. Son Kevin has some large persimmon trees on his farm, but seems as if the cows love them too. It’s a contest to see who gets them first.
Fall mushrooms have been making an appearance, and would abound if we get some more rain. We’ve had a couple of nice puffballs lately, which we ate promptly. I have found that after slicing them and rolling them in flour, and then in an egg-milk mixture, and rolling them in bread crumbs, they are better. Folks who turn up their noses at wild mushrooms are missing some delicious food.
The meadow mushrooms, which we have always called “Bradleys” are usually plentiful this time of year. I like to simply sauté them in butter and eat them for breakfast with an egg. Sometimes we find the sulphur shelf or chicken mushroom while it is young and tender. This choice wild mushroom can be used in recipes instead of chicken, and it is scrumptious.
Late evening sun has broken through the overcast sky, and nightfall will soon be here. As soon as the sun begins its descent down behind our hills, we are blessed with the spectacular sunsets of autumn. The western horizon turns from shell pink to deep rose, shot through with streaks of gold. The sky changes from minute to minute, deepening to mauve and violet before the gray shadows of night prevail.
Night falls in the hills, and a thin sickle moon cuts through the dark sky. A few crickets still cry, but their call grows dimmer as the nights become colder. Stars appear, one by one, and fill the sky with pinpoints of light. The blue October day is gone, but the memory of it will linger and warm the heart. Bedtime beckons, and a warm blanket feels good. Sleep is sweet when the conscience is clear, and you have walked with God all through the day. We can be assured that He will watch over us while we take our rest.
WEAVING
Author Unknown
My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me
I can but choose the colors;
He worketh steadily.
Ofttimes He weaveth sorrow,
And I, in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the other side.
Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
Precious thought, our Father knoweth,
Careth for His child,
Bids me nestle closer to Him
When the storm beats wild.
Well I know the heart that planneth
Naught but good to me:
Joy and sorrow interwoven,
Love in all I see.
(When I would beget content and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other little living creatures that are not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of Nature, and therefore trust in Him—Izaak Walton)
