November, 1999 Monthly Feature : Each month I have been putting together some of my favourites to share with you. Archives

Pennsylvania Autumn

[ "If I were to name the three most precious resources of life, I should say books, friends, and nature; the greatest of these, at least the most constant and always at hand, is nature. In nature we always have an inexhaustible storehouse of that which moves the heart, appeals to the mind, and fires the imagination, --health to the body, a stimulus to the intellect, and a joy to the soul."

John Burroughs ]

I'd like to try to describe my home to you, as far as I can, anyway. This valley is a small bowl in the centre of a ring of broad mountain plateaus. It is full of small towns that generally run one into another (and unless you watch the signs, you might mistake it for one large village with a 100 mile long main thoroughfare). Off the main streets in any town, just beyond the required developments are the farmlands. The farms are very beautiful here, kept for the most part by very traditional farming families with Scotch or German backgrounds. There is a strong Amish flavour to even the non-Amish farms. The spare and clean yards, the plain white clapboard or stone houses, and the small pockets of flowers by the doorstep - all perpetuate the happy yeoman image that Americans are so fond of.

Travelling out of the valley and into the mountains themselves, the towns are strung further apart- like the pearls in a maiden aunt's necklace. Winding roads are cut directly from the rock, so you drive hugging cliffs of dark gray stone avoiding the precipice with its flimsy guard-rail.

Once you reach a wider place in the road, a small town or the vestiges of one, you can stop and turn your eyes toward the valley. At this time of year, it truly does blaze as if the world is on fire. From this vantage point, framed by leaves of gold and crimson, the patchwork farms, rolling hills, and tiny towns (each with a churchspire peeking from behind a leafy privacy screen) are very beautiful. You can also sometimes see the scars of strip-mining on the hills. Shorn and burnt, mountainsides wait for snow's cooling hand and spring's regrowth to restore dignity and beauty.

Walk into the woods with me, and enter a living museum. Every step follows the trail of a glacier - a careless hiker that littered the landscape with boulders as it passed through some 13,000 years ago. More recently, the woods were the home to the Algonquin Indians, but now only the black bear, deer, and other wildlife that sustained them make a home there. The growth in our forests is not very dense. Strewn with boulders, the undergrowth is minimal, and the beautiful birch, maple, elm, hemlock, cherry and ash trees all have room to stretch and grow to fullest potential. Under a canopy of brilliant colour, even the hottest summer days make no impression on this private world.

Running through the wildlands here are the most beautiful clear mountain streams. The evidence of their longevity is in the smooth worn tops of the boulders, which provide excellent daydreaming perches throughout the forests. If you can sit quietly for a short while, you will begin to notice all the small treasures that nature hid from careless eyes and ears. Trees that bear the scars of deer polishing their antlers on the bark, scuffed up piles of leaves where bear foraged for beechnuts, tiny mounds of freshly dug dirt - evidence of the hoarding nature of our pretty little chipmunks and squirrels. Peek through the canopy, and watch the raptors migrating south. This area is a sanctuary for hawk and eagles, and the pageant of their passing each year is well worth waiting for. Listen carefully too, for the quiet step of a fox, or the garbled rantings of the wild turkey. All of these treasures belong to autumn here, and will pass with the coming of winter.

I think I'll leave you here with a thermos of China Yunnan Pu-erh tea. This is one of the few teas that improves the longer it is steeped, and I think you will find the unique earthy flavor and deep rich color a pleasure. Walk in beauty, enjoy the day.

K.M.G.

Featured Artist: Alfred Sisley Avenue of Chestnut Trees Near Le Celle St. Cloud. Featured Poet: William Wordsworth Nutting Featured Composer: Claude Debussy Rêverie 1 Gordon Fergus-Thompson, piano (1,908 KB)

Nutting --It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame-- Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,--and, in truth, More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene!--A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet;--or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And--with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep-- I heard the murmur, and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.-- Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.

Past Features

¹In MP3 format. If you are unable to play this file, check out WINAMP. This is a very good MP3 player from Nullsoft, Inc. that you can download today.