I know this to be true by several undeniable signs. 1) The leaves that cover my yard. 2) The ice that covers the lake every morning. 3) The need for my electric blanket to pre-warm my side of the bed every evening. And 4) the jack-o-lanterns that are rapidly becoming toothless and comical and any demons (wasn’t that the original purpose of carving squash?) would laugh at the sight of them and terrorize my house if they thought it was fertile ground for their ministrations. (So far we seem to be demon-free, so that’s a good thing. Perhaps prayer works best, after all.)
Sign #1: the leaves. When we lived in town, leaves were a scourge on society and had to be raked, removed, dealt with severely, unless you wanted to be “pink-slipped” by the city and smacked with a bill for their removal. They have valid reasons for this, as they don’t want the prairie lake to turn into a stinky, algae-covered toxic waste zone come August. I don’t want that, either, though, I must say, I like living in the country so much more, where no one cares what becomes of my leaves and we can stomp on them to our heart’s content.
Sign #2: ice on the lake. I enjoy seeing the ice come in, even though I know what it means. I enjoy the daily “weather report” of the extent of its reach across the water, the depth of its hold on the fishes.
Ice forming on a tiny prairie lake is not nearly the big deal that it is on Lake Superior in Duluth. There it is real news when the lake closes for the winter and the shipping industry must wait for Mother Nature to decide when it will begin again. They do their best, come spring, to hurry along the process, and it’s news-worthy again when the ice-breaker goes out and shoves the rotting, blackened burgs out of the way so that the taconite can once again freely flow through the Great Lakes and out of the Eerie Canal.
Here, in the southern part of Minnesota, the Canada Geese are the harbingers of spring and when they show up we know that the ice is melting and soon fishing boats will dot the undulating landscape of Lake Okabena and make fishing widows of many mothers come the fishing opener on Mother’s Day…which, when I think about it, either really stinks or, if the dad’s bring their kids with them, really is a blessing in rubber-booted disguise.
Sign #3: my dual-control electric blanket. My husband does not believe in electrically boosting the temperature of his side of the bed. I, on the other hand, am a firm believer in such modern inventions and when I forget to pre-heat my side of the bed, I feel like the one last little treat of the day has been swiped away from me like some mean kid stealing my lollipop just as I got to the Tootsieroll center.
Sign #4: the jack-o-lanterns look like old and toothless men, wheezing in dark corners. I love carving pumpkins. LOVE it. I don’t know why, exactly, as I am completely inept as an artist in any other way. I could not carve a piece of wood into a beautiful form to save my life. Perhaps, come to think of it, that is why I love them: no one cares what they look like and the crazier the better. My life does not depend upon the beauty of my squash-carving abilities.
I don’t even mind reaching into their slippery depths and pulling out their innards. Like pulling off a scab, there is something satisfying about it. And the pumpkins themselves never seem to mind, either. Unless, without my realizing it, they’re holding it against me, just waiting for the cover of night to suddenly take on life and threaten to retaliate despite their slumping features and their growing over-bites. If they do this, I will stand my ground and laugh in their faces. I know their threats are empty. It’s hard to physically harm anyone sans limbs and teeth.
I suppose, really, it’s time to toss those sagging pumpkins into the compost heap. Let them wreck havoc on the bunnies that come to nibble on their shrunken heads. But tossing them out so always seems so final. So absolute. An acknowledgement that autumn is almost over. That winter, in Minnesota, is well on its way.
If it’s teeth look like my jack-o-lantern’s, then it’s bite shouldn’t be too bad.