let me tell you about
driving through the prairie.
almost every weekend, we've been driving the 1.5 hours up to the cabin (where invariably another something has broken that requires fixing and $800).
This past weekend we had amazing indian summer weather (after coming to the realization the week before that winter was undoubtedly and unstoppably on its way--highs of 50 degrees and so on)--saturday turned out to be about 77 degrees, 85 on sunday. it was, in a word, unexpectedly gorgeous.
the way up to arnes is a straight line. when you get within 30km of mile 122, there is a curve in the road marked by rolls of hay wrapped in blue plastic. that's how you know you're getting close.
your way is marked by fields, and if you were lucky enough to see them in the summer, by now you would know the difference between seas of yellow rapeseed, purple flax, and gold shades of wheat and hay. you would be able to separate each brown field from another simply by feel, by conjuring up images of summer. About a month ago, fields of sunflowers took their place in the ranks, but they're fading now, dull blonde stalks awaiting the first frost to harvest for birdseed and for spitting. Now the fields are only marked by the geometry of the combine, the flax fields in dull contrast to the gleam of shorn wheat. There are stretches of fall fire on the sumac, while bur oak and box elder are beginning to turn yellow. Every farmhouse is covered in the visages of fall, acting as small mountains in contrast to their comparison flat landscapes. All around you is horizon.
For the first time in years, you will remember that geese originate somewhere before they fly south for the winter. You will see them by the thousands, luxuriating in fields that haven't yet been razed, breaking from their long journey, you imagine, to santa barbara, tillamook, snowflake, bogota, caracas. you have seen so many Vs of geese that you had forgotten what their travels looked like when you were a child, forgotten that you can hear their great raucous honking cries before you see their formation split the sky neatly in two. you had forgottent he panic of squirrels, a race for the safety of the hearth. in fact, you had forgotten entirely what fall means.
maybe now you can remember, with me.
almost every weekend, we've been driving the 1.5 hours up to the cabin (where invariably another something has broken that requires fixing and $800).
This past weekend we had amazing indian summer weather (after coming to the realization the week before that winter was undoubtedly and unstoppably on its way--highs of 50 degrees and so on)--saturday turned out to be about 77 degrees, 85 on sunday. it was, in a word, unexpectedly gorgeous.
the way up to arnes is a straight line. when you get within 30km of mile 122, there is a curve in the road marked by rolls of hay wrapped in blue plastic. that's how you know you're getting close.
your way is marked by fields, and if you were lucky enough to see them in the summer, by now you would know the difference between seas of yellow rapeseed, purple flax, and gold shades of wheat and hay. you would be able to separate each brown field from another simply by feel, by conjuring up images of summer. About a month ago, fields of sunflowers took their place in the ranks, but they're fading now, dull blonde stalks awaiting the first frost to harvest for birdseed and for spitting. Now the fields are only marked by the geometry of the combine, the flax fields in dull contrast to the gleam of shorn wheat. There are stretches of fall fire on the sumac, while bur oak and box elder are beginning to turn yellow. Every farmhouse is covered in the visages of fall, acting as small mountains in contrast to their comparison flat landscapes. All around you is horizon.
For the first time in years, you will remember that geese originate somewhere before they fly south for the winter. You will see them by the thousands, luxuriating in fields that haven't yet been razed, breaking from their long journey, you imagine, to santa barbara, tillamook, snowflake, bogota, caracas. you have seen so many Vs of geese that you had forgotten what their travels looked like when you were a child, forgotten that you can hear their great raucous honking cries before you see their formation split the sky neatly in two. you had forgottent he panic of squirrels, a race for the safety of the hearth. in fact, you had forgotten entirely what fall means.
maybe now you can remember, with me.