The Colors of Change

 It's hard to believe, but already another summer gardening season is over.

    

My community garden plot in town is cleaned out and cover crops are sprouting for winter. A few other gardeners have done the same, but still others seem to have forgotten all about their plots. Yet others are planting winter crops. Good for them!

Thanks to Don, we'll eat well this winter

I must confess to being a fair-weather gardener, and am grateful that my husband is a year-round trooper who keeps us in fresh greens, carrots, beets, brassicas, etc. all winter.  He's got next year's plots smothered in cover crops and the winter crops in raised beds look beautiful - so lush and green!

Community garden plots run the gamut from fungus-faded and weedy to colorful surprises peeking out here and there. Birds are having a field day with everything that has gone to seed. In fact, most of the sunflowers have been "beaked" out and hang like dry shells of their former selves.

The birds had been waiting patiently for all the blossoms (enjoyed by countless humans and bees earlier) to turn from frilly yellow or orange with mysterious dark centers to brown and crispy dry so they could do their harvesting. It's been fun to watch them and listen to their chatter - "Wow! Come look at this one! A feast for all," they seem to be shouting as flashes of winged color flit throughout the garden like kids on a treasure hunt.

 I took one last trip through the garden with my camera recently to record some of the colors of fall. While there were some bold ones here and there, it was a particular purple cauliflower that really whetted my visual appetite.

Don't know whose it is, but it's stunning - almost too beautiful to eat. They're a reminder that seasons don't fade completely. There is always something lovely to appreciate and look forward to. I love the colors of fall - there is beauty, even in death, and a certain excitement in seasonal change with the promise of next season's colors and flavors.We need a break from fresh tomatoes and zucchini so we can welcome them enthusiastically again next summer. I've always pitied people who live in constant climates - even "eternal spring" - and don't have seasonal changes to look forward to.

     When I was younger and ran full steam through spring, summer and fall, the colors and changes marked the upcoming season of winter, of rest and renewal - a welcome change. The older I get, the more I see human "seasons" more clearly. We all have our periods of growth, strength, unlimited energy, hope and promise. Eventually, we realize we have spent much of that strength and energy; it's time to slow down and appreciate the little things, and the fact we have fewer
seasons left. When young, we foolishly (necessarily?) think we'll never slow or get tired or old like the people who taught and inspired us did. No sir. We're invincible. The zucchini and tomato plants probably think that too, in June. Their come-uppance comes with a blight, infestation or hard frost - nature's equivalent of our arthritis, aching backs, shoulders, knees or hernias. Spent plants go into compost and come back to nurture future generations. We, on the other hand become more pensive and philosophical as we learn to accept change with as much appreciation as we do seasons. As a lover of seasons, I'm always grateful for change - and increasingly for rest. I'll be grateful to begin anew next spring when it arrives, albeit a bit slower but, hopefully, wiser.

All too soon, the frost will be on the pumpkin.