October 24, 2007

• "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
   A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted...."
  Hot
  pink impatiens, leftover from summer, are still blooming their warm
  little hearts out in the round bed we dug around the maple tree in our
  front yard last spring. The caladiums and ferns that shared their bed
  are browning and almost gone, but the impatiens are still merrily
  blooming, despite the sprinkling of maple leaves mulching the bright
  flowers and drifting around the bricks that edge their bed.

  
  

  I've
  been putting it off, but soon it will be time to finally pull up the
  summertime flowers so they can give their space to winter's pansies.
  One must end so another can begin.
  It's always a little sad to put away the trappings of one season to make way for the next.
   I
  can remember one year in Mississippi —  I planted blue and yellow and
  purple pansies in a bed around my old pecan tree one sunny October
  afternoon, and they bloomed their brave little heads off through
  November's leaves, and December's mud, and January's sleet, and
  February's cold wind, and March's warm sunshine and April's showers,
  and in sweet green May, they were still staunchly blossoming around the
  tree next to my gravel driveway. But I had summertime petunias to
  plant, and it was time for the pansies to go. I remember whispering to
  them, "I'm sorry I'm having to pull you up — thank you for blooming for
  me all winter, and lighting up those gray days and making me smile with
  your cheerful little faces." Then I regretfully pulled them up by their
  roots and consigned them to a leaf pile in the corner of the back yard,
  and turned to the happier task of tucking the tender baby petunias into
  their bed.
  This is a time of transition....On my front steps, the
  still-blooming pink geraniums of summer flank fall's bronze mums and a
  couple of orange pumpkins.
  

  
  

  The temperatures are bouncing from the
  forties to the eighties, and we don't know what to wear. We start out
  the mornings in sweaters and end the afternoon in short sleeves,
  watering the flowers on the front porch in our bare feet.
  It's a
  time of mixed feelings. We're sad to see the old season, with all its
  joys, leave us, but we're looking forward to the new one and all the
  good things it brings with it.
  "A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance...."
  It's
  a time of transition in my life, too, learning to live without my
  mother's love pouring into my life every day. Last fall, our first in
  the Ozarks, I took joy in describing all of its bright beauty to Mama,
  who was living among the palm trees and always-green live oaks of south
  Florida, away from her beloved Virginia seasons. She especially missed
  the vivid autumns all the 10 years she lived in Florida. I wanted so
  badly for her to be able to come up and see us last fall, and see the
  flaming maples and the sumac and sweet gum trees for herself, but she
  was too frail to travel. I had to be content to describe the trees to
  her the best I could, and email her lots of pictures. I even mailed her
  a box full of red and orange maple leaves. My first fall in the Ozarks
  was achingly beautiful, and it was even more meaningful for me because
  I felt like I was enjoying it for Mama, too.

  
  

  
  
  It's hard to put away
  the trappings of one season to make way for the next. It's sad to no
  longer pick up my little cell phone and push the speed dial #3 to talk
  to my mother every afternoon. It's sad not to be able to hear her
  voice, and talk things over with her, and look forward to seeing her on
  my next visit to Florida. I miss being able to share with her the
  little nuggets of funny things that happen during my days, and hearing
  her laugh.
  Soon it will be time to say good-bye to the pink
  impatiens under the maple tree. They'll go to the compost pile to help
  make good, crumbly black dirt for next spring's gardens. But in their
  place will be bright little pansies, their sassy faces turned toward
  the slanting yellow sunshine of fall.

  
  

  
  
  By Celia DeWoody
  Published Oct. 24, 2007
  Copyright 2007 Harrison Daily Times
  Harrison, Ark.
  
  

  • 6:51 pm
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