the first freeze

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We load the pickup with gunnysacks of ear corn, haul them to the barn, run them through the shelter, and fill bins to overflowing with the golden-yellow kernels. We bring bags of oats and blocks of salt home from the grain elevator in town. We check last summer's hay and fasten down the wooden sidewalls by the goat stalls.

"Put new plastic on the chickenhouse windows next."

"Right. I'm going to clean the house too . . . and scrub down the roosts and change the bedding in the nest boxes."

"Good idea. Spread the old litter on the asparagus bed . . . and put a blanket of clean straw on the strawberry plants while you're at it."

And as we button up the farm and stock the larder and stack the fuel, we also store up memories for the long nights ahead.

Memories of waist-high calves frolicking together in the pasture . . . and moving farther each day from the watchful eyes of their mothers. Memories of the spicy-sweet smell of fall apples as we climb into the trees, pack the fruit into boxes, and store them away in the cellar. Memories of the rustling crunchy sound of red and gold leaves under the big maples and the chattering of two blue jays in the fence raw. Memories of a giant combine across the way as it waddles down aisles of corn, gobbles the stalks in great noisy gulps, and spews shelled grain into waiting wagons.

Yes, this is a busy time. A time of walnuts to be gathered and sunflowers to be hulled. But it's also a time to just stop and look. To just stop and enjoy.

For there are cold days ahead. Days when the skies will be gray and the outlook bleak. And sometimes, during those days, we'll need to look back and find that while we were stocking our larder with the fruits of autumn . . . we were restocking our sense of sight and sound and smell too.

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