Dahlia leaves didn’t appreciate the post-Sandy freeze.
This was supposed to be a post about how I kept myself occupied after Sandy while waiting for my work to resume. Schools have been closed since the storm.
Fortunately, Joe and I had power throughout the Sandy ordeal, but the gas shortage had me staying close to home — which gave me the perfect chance to clean the yard.
We can learn a lot from trees. I first realized this after visiting the Survivor Tree at Ground Zero — and now, in the wake of Sandy, trees continue to teach me.
Bradford Pear.
Take a look at this one. It’s a Bradford Pear — or, rather, what’s left of a Bradford Pear.
It was planted years ago, along with two others, by a local business interested in prettying up a very busy street corner. I remember when they were all planted. I was thrilled — at last, a business was taking an interest in beautifying the community.
Besides, at the time, the Bradford Pear was the tree of the moment, planted by towns and homeowners because of its flowering beauty, graceful shape, and instant shade ability. Their abundance in the landscape — both public and private — turned spring into a flowering tree extravaganza.
The trees planted by this business did what they were expected to do — especially on hot summer days when residents huddled under their cool shade while waiting for the public bus.
But one by one, the trees have disappeared. One was badly damaged after being hit by a car. A second came down in a storm. Now, this is the sole survivor, and I know the story of each of its missing limbs — as if I am telling the tales of the scars on my own body.
What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four hours after Sandy, the air is cool and crisp, the sky crystal clear, and the moon full and bright. In fact, this full moon photo, as well as some scary and festive decoration photos, was my plan for a Wordless Wednesday Halloween post. Now, most of those decorations are blown away or are tangled in branches, and the crisp moon now illustrates how much can change in a day.
Not the most creative headline, but it is brief and straight to the point — and that’s what I’ll try to be in this post.
First, I want to thank everyone for their support and prayers. It has been a very long day of wind and very little rain here on Long Island. With each passing hour, the gusts have grown stronger. Each time, we hear the house creaking and the sound of debris hitting the windows.
Sandy’s opening gusts on Long Island.
Today is far from a beautiful day. Sandy is on her way, and Joe and I have packed up the yard and we’re now inside watching fall actually fall. Autumn foliage is falling like confetti now, as the first gusts of wind make their way to Long Island. Flocks of birds are racing for cover; squirrels are gathering their provisions. Even the air feels strange. Sandy is a tropical system, but the air is chilled, as the tropics crash into a cold front.
And that’s why I find it so ironic that I’m creating a post about beautiful things. I can think of so many things that are beautiful. Sunsets. Rainbows. Dahlias. Maybe even waves of blowing leaves on a gusty day. But something with the words “nitty” and “gritty” and “dirt?” No way.
Dogwood.
What has happened to raking?
I always remember raking as a communal event, one that involved most neighbors and all members of the family in some capacity. Give the neighbors a perfect autumn day, and they’ll give you one universal thought: “It’s cool and crisp and there isn’t a breeze – this is a perfect day for raking.”
Okay, maybe not in the entire world – but certainly in my world.
This is the first weekend where fall really feels like fall – as in leaf fall, temperature fall, and mood fall. As much as I would love to live in denial and believe that I can still put on a pair of shorts and sandals and play like it’s July, the cold front that came in last night has proven that the calendar is indeed correct.
Today was a day to begin cleaning up the fall.
The first order of business was to hack and dig the tropicals and prepare them for winter storage. The sensible voice in my head knew that this was a mercy killing, a necessary evil so that the canna and elephant ears may live to see another summer – at least in my zone 6/7 garden. But the emotional voice inside of me said, “Waaaaaahhhhhhh.”
Indian summer is like a woman. Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she pleases so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay.
This is the quote that runs through my mind on any autumn day when summer-like temperatures breathe their last breaths – much like this past Friday when an October day, with its changing leaves and angled sunlight, seemed to conflict with the June-like temperature.
There is a certain sadness when I look about the waning October garden. So many blooms have faded and turned to seed; so many leaves have dulled.
And then there are the red hot flowers, looking a bit out of place and overly made-up amid the first flush of autumn’s golds and yellows and rusts.
Celosia — a few plants from last summer reseeded themselves for this year’s garden. Surprise!
And that’s when my imagination takes hold.
Clearly, I was mad about Madonna — but mad enough to save an issue of People?
In the previous post, I opened up what can only be considered my personal time capsule, a set of crates that held objects from my past. The last post ended with a reference to a list of songs scribbled on a piece of paper . . .
Some of the song names had been crossed out, so I think I must have been able to record them from the radio and onto a cassette — remember those? The photos on this post should give you an idea of what I listened to, but if you’d like more – here we go: Soft Cell, The Clash, The Ramones, Depeche Mode, Spandau Ballet, Romeo Void, Stray Cats, Adam & the Ants, Joan Jett, Duran Duran, Lene Lovich, Bananarama, Fun Boy 3 — and so many more. I walked a fine line between the New Wave and Punk genres, with a definite leaning toward all bands British.
Then there were the letters and cards – so many written words from a time when people actually wrote and mailed letters. I had to wonder what would possess me to hold on to all of this correspondence and as I reread them, I was struck by the energy and passion of the writers as they – we – were all on the verge of stepping into adulthood, all eager to make a difference, to have an impact on the world.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 