Green Sleeves

Autumn 2009

Green Sleeves

Nothing unusual about snow in Minnesota. It heaps itself upon us every year. But up north outside my cabin today, a rarity occurred. Three inches’ worth, with a fourth predicted, accumulated on my green lawn in early October.

I had never seen snow invade summer’s territory. Seemed like reaching over your neighbor’s fence to steal flowers.

White globs settled on the oaks’ green leaves. Red sumacs had dollops of whipped cream atop them. I went outside with my camera to try to grasp the phenomenon but it had trouble finding a focal point. Should it focus on the white dusting of hoar’s frost on the evergreens, the green lawn in front of them or the two oaks in ochre above?

Put grass, red, green and yellow leaves together and you have autumn. Frost it with white and sit underneath a tree and watch the greens slough their heavy sleeves. Listen as branches release the wet weight and make an instant shower. Mix together nature’s surprise and you get crashing seasons indelibly etched in your mind.

Memories are like that. We get to keep them the way we capture them. They implant themselves in our brains and before you know it something fleeting has turned to permanence.

Why do some things that happen in a day stick and others slide off?

What has happened before? What was I feeling when it happened? From what perspective was I viewing it?