WOODLAND AUTUMN

Each year one of my more pessimistic friends says, "After the
Fourth of July, it's all downhill as far as summer goes." And I suppose he
is correct. Before we know it, it is time for the county fair and for the schools to re-open. And we look around to see a number of summer chores still undone. We recall plans for summer activities that we never got around to.
Sad to say, the older we get, the faster time seems to fly. Each year more and more of those wonderful plans have to be postponed, hoping we get around to them next summer.
So, ready or not, autumn arrives. About the only negative thing we can say about this season is that we know it will be followed by the ice and snow of winter. Occasionally a gray fall day can trigger a bit of sadness as we watch the summer plants and flowers wither and die. But this year it would almost be a pleasure to watch our large lawn turn brown. The frequent rains have kept it green and growing without letup. I don't remember a year when the grass required this much mowing.
Autumn here in the Midwest would be a difficult time not to enjoy, even if we tried. Temperatures are usually mild, neither too hot nor too cold. And the hills and river bluffs take on brilliant hues that are a welcome change after all the lush green of summer. We watch hills covered with maple trees turn red and orange. Oaks take on darker reds and browns.
At times, when walking through stands of birch and aspen trees on a dark, gray day, we almost feel that the bright yellow leaves are emitting a golden light of their own. Plain weeds like goldenrods are suddenly flowers, with their own special color. The red of the sumac decorates many country roadsides, and the leaves of the ivy vines that climb and twine their way high up into tall trees take on their own special eye-catching deep red hue.
I no longer hunt, and don't get out into the woods and fields as I once did. And I don't pick up and hull and dry black walnuts anymore. I wouldn't mind having a few butternuts, but those trees are no longer as plentiful as they once were. Harvesting hickory nuts always seemed to be a matter of beating the squirrels to them. Usually I came in second best. I remember picking hazelnuts when I was younger, and drying them until their fuzzy husks popped open, releasing the hidden nuts.
I haven't seen any of those plants for a long time. I wonder if any or many of the woodland pastures still have sizable stands of hazel brush.
In autumn, our migrating birds leave for warmer climes and the wild geese often honk at us as they fly by overhead. Hibernating animals put on an extra layer of fat to carry them through the winter. The ones that will be out in the cold weather grow denser, warmer fur. And we humans get our snow shovels around, or else tune up our snow blowers. Because winter is now on the way.

WOODLAND AUTUMN

Brilliant autumn leaves all muted
By low fog clouds, hanging gray,
And there's just a hint of winter
In the mid-October day.

Beaver have been busy cutting
Saplings for their winter feed.
Squirrels frisk through final harvest,
Gathering the nuts they'll need.

Red fox looking sharp and sassy,
Fur approaching winter prime;
Chubby woodchuck, fat and ready
To sleep through the wintertime.

White-tailed buck attacks the bushes,
Slashes a defenseless tree.
Soon his antlers will be burnished,
From the itching velvet free.

Somewhere in the hazy distance
Wild geese sound their haunting cry.
A great day for reminiscing;
One more summer has slipped by.

SMALL -TOWN DINERS OFFER ELEMENT OF SURPRISE

I am not impressed by big, fancy restaurants where the preparation of food often appears to play second-fiddle to advertising, decorating, and fancy menus, also, reprinting menus to keep ahead of constantly rising prices.
Fast food places are usually good and serve the purpose for which they were intended. But they usually lack variety and character.
My favorite stops are the independently owned small-town "beaneries" and "greasy spoons." They often furnish something that home cooking doesn't - the element of surprise. A bowl of chicken soup may be a large, full bowl with lots of meat, vegetables and noodles - a meal in itself. A week later, the same order might bring you half of a bowl of thin soup consisting mostly of canned chicken broth.
Coffee is almost always unpredictable and can rarely be described as good.
Usually it is either excellent or downright horrible. Scalloped potatoes might contain quite a bit of ham, or almost none. Tuna and noodles may contain lots of tuna, or be almost entirely noodles. Cooked rice might have an excellent taste and texture - or might just sit there in one big, solid glob. Beef tips over rice or noodles might be tough, gristly bits of meat, obliterated by strong, brown canned gravy, or might be a very tasty choice. Chili can often be a story in itself.
Some restaurants take on and reflect the character of their owners. If the owner likes
antiques, the walls will be decorated with old hand tools, crockery and other artifacts of
earlier days. If the owner has a sense of humor and likes bawdy stories, there will be an ample supply of printed placards and jokes. A truck stop I once frequented in Viroqua, Wis. was operated by a man who owned horses. His place was decorated with trophies, pictures and statues of draft horses. Usually the main topic around the tables was horse-pulling contests.
An owner in Ontario, Wis. liked to share beautiful and positive thoughts with her customers. She kept her bulletin board and counter top covered with clippings, greeting
card poems and hand-lettered ideas and rhymes she had copied from books and magazines. One busy restaurant usually had as many people shaking dice as they had eating breakfast each morning. It was a tad bit illegal, but the city police chief was one of the regulars in the game.
And then there are the rest rooms – equally as unpredictable as is the food. Some are well-marked, others almost impossible to find. Some neat, others long neglected. Looking for a bawdy joke or naughty drawing? You'll find them on the walls. Prefer humorous rhymes? They're there, too. Seeking religion? You'll often find where a disgruntled Christian has boldly inscribed: "Jesus Saves," along with chapter and verse for recommended reading for the scribbling sinners.
I've developed a great deal of admiration for many of the people who operate and/or work in restaurants. The hours are long and the work is not all fun and games. Yet these folks, young and old, get the job done. And they do it with a smile.

THE HUNGRY HERD CAFE

God, bless that dear old cook down at
The Hungry Herd Cafe.
She's just discovered a new way
To spoil fried eggs today.

She really loves to over-cook,
She's honed it to an art;
Her boiled rice and potatoes, mashed,
Are hard to tell apart.

For brewing coffee, she uses
No recipe or text -
One day it's thin as dishwater,
Removes varnish, the next.

Her bacon's tough as razor strops,
With ham like leather boots,
You cut your gravy with a fork –
Or knife, as texture suits.

German potato salad does
Not impress many Dutch.
Today's special, the corned beef hash,
Just doesn't taste like such.

Hot chili's a good winter choice,
Real tasty, like as not,
But till it's in your bowl, there is
No guarantee it's hot.

The silverware is bent and worn,
Check first for dirt or rust.
"Fresh, home-made pie" cringes and shrinks
Away from greasy crust.

It is not rare, at times, to see,
On bread crusts, flecks of mold.
On toast, we pretend it's just bits
Of tarnish on the gold.

The dishwashing machine leaves soap
To flavor coffee mugs.
Exterminator's sign tells when
They last fogged out the bugs.

The waitress shows the weight of age,
Her steps, painful and slow.
For waitresses, they say the feet
And tips, are first to go.

'Neath the cash register, a glass
Showcase holds wares to sell,
Like candy bars and chewing gum;
Antacids move real well!

Tomorrow morn, I'll crave caffeine
To start my brand-new day.
I’ll ride my favorite stool down at
The Hungry Herd Cafe.

COMING EVENTS

Some days can be dull and dreary,

Heavy, dark skies filled with gloom,

No bright promise for tomorrow,

Just hints of impending doom,

Not even one veiled prediction

Of a lighter, brighter day

When the sun will shine down, and will

Bring a few good breaks my way.

I refuse to let this bother

Me, or get me all perplexed.

I’m content to sit and ponder:

What the hell can happen next?

LIFE AT THE HOME

Nursing homes and convalescent centers, as we know them today, were almost unheard of when I was a youngster. Overall, people now live longer than they did back then. And with our modern life style, most families find themselves too busy to give proper home care to their older members.
A visit to a nursing home to see old friends or family members can give cause for some serious thought. It can be a stark reminder of just how short is our stay here on earth and of how flimsy the thread used by life’s weaver. Also may give us reason to wonder how we will react to all of the aches and pains and infirmities of age.
Some nursing home residents find it difficult to leave behind the freedom to come and go as they please. Others, who once took great pride in their work and other various achievements, find a life devoid of such activities almost unbearable.
Then there are a number who still count their blessings. They appreciate the fact they no longer must cope with the workaday world. Or the outdoors’ extreme heat and cold. They appreciate the comfort of knowing there will be food on the table at mealtime, and that doctors and nurses are readily available to look after them. And many enjoy the company of others their own age.


LIFE AT THE HOME

Twelve residents gather

In the spacious lobby

Of the Stone County Home

On a cold winter day.

Roy James is a talker,

He is seldom quiet,

Greets the home’s visitors

Each day at the front door.

Jim Knight is a walker,

He prances and paces

Spending much of his time

Circling the lobby floor.

Joyce Wilson says,"They serve

The noon meal quite early.

Line up right here when you

Hear them call out our name

“The food isn’t bad, but

As time goes by, it seems

Everything they serve here

Pretty much tastes the same.”

Tex Jones, an ex-cowboy,

Spent years in the saddle –

Long, hard days that left his

Body aching and sore

He says, “This new wheelchair

Has a real soft saddle.

I’m glad I don’t have to

Ride the range anymore.”

Gray-haired Fred Smith looks back

Across the dim past to

Long years working in a

Hot and noisy steel mill,

I sure don’t miss time clocks

Or factory whistles.

With that whole scene

I haveCertainly had my fill!”

Kate Johnson speaks fondly

Of raising her children

In youthful, but now dim,

Hazy days long gone by.

No matter how she tries,

She can’t quite recall the

Old recipe for her

Great sour cream raisin pie.

Floyd Brown joins the group,

but Is quiet, as always

His thoughts elsewhere,as if

Lost in some bygone day.

The one-time mechanic,

And son of a blacksmith,

Often yearns for his red

Fifty-eight Chevrolet.

Thomas Johnson recalls

Days sailing “the briney.”

Tomorrow he’ll ship out,

But only in daydreams.

He smells the salt air,

Sees the breeze fill the sails –

Feels his ship lurch forward –

At least, that’s how it seems.

Josh Kaiser leans forward,

And silently nods off,

With his handsome gray head

Almost down in his lap.

Mae Adams wheels off down

The North Hall to her room,

Says, “I think it’s time now

For my afternoon nap.”

Lester Williams leans back

In a soft recliner.

Thinks of summer and corn

Growing tall in his fields

His years of hard work and

Great pride in producing

Some of Dubuque County’s,

And the state’s record yields.

Clyde Wright shakes his head and

Says, “Life sure does change when

Old age comes and we can

No longer come and go

“But this place isn’t bad.

I’m treated real well here.

Somehow, it’s become the

Only real home I know.”

NOAH - LEARNING THE GAME

Evenings are often a fun time
For both my Daddy and me.
When evening chores are finished, we
Watch Pro-Wrestling on TV.

Daddy teaches me a few holds,
And tells of fun Grandpa had
Long years ago when he taught the
“Iron Claw” to Cousin Chad.

Daddy says, “We never can know
Just what the future will bring,
Maybe, someday, Son, you will be
Up there wrestling in that ring,

“Performing for huge crowds of fans,
Beneath all those big bright lights.
Maybe Mommy can sew you an
Outfit with a cape and tights.”

As we watch TV, I’m learning
New moves, and it is my hope
To one day perfect the deadly
“Powerdive” from the top rope,

Once I’ve perfected the “Sleeper,”
Opponents I’ll “put away”
Into such a deep sleep they won’t
Wake up until the next day.

I’ll use “Bear Hugs” and “Backbreakers,”
The “Indian Death Lock,” for fun.
Once learned, the “Flying Head Scissors”
Should quickly get the job done.

But, right now, I just rely on
The holds I already know
And when I wrestle with Daddy,
He still lets me win, I know.

But I still keep trying a few
New “No Name Holds.” Take your pick.
Right now I am most effective
With my new “Flying Drop-Kick.

With that one great move, I can be
Very difficult to stop,
But first, I must learn to avoid
My Daddy’s “Cannonball Drop.”

WEATHER VANE

Leafing through a magazine recently, I ran onto a picture of an old barn. On top of the roof was an ancient weather vane, a sheet metal figure of a farmyard rooster, badly used by the years and covered with layers of flaky rust, but still looking kind of proud and cocky and master of all it surveyed. I recalled a poem I once wrote about an old rooster; in his prime, a real "cock of the walk," but at last brought down a peg or two by the years. And by his younger, abler competitors.
Writing about real live people is usually not too difficult. Coming up with stories and rhymes about the fields and streams and the hills and valleys and the plants and animals that live and make their homes there is often no great strain. And the changes of the four seasons can readily inspire a few lines. Old memories frequently churn up tales of days long gone by. But writing about an inanimate object – something like a rusty old weather vane – at times requires shaking loose a little imagination. And yet, the staunch old fellow was still standing there at his post after all those years, perhaps it is no more than right that someone should tell his story. What the heck? We'll give it a try:

THE WEATHER VANE

Atop the old red barn's
Steep, shingled roof
Stood a sentry brave,
So proud and aloof.

He was no great hero,
Saving the farm
And the large farmyard flock
From grave, certain harm,

Yet he was lord of all
That he surveyed.
From that high vantage point,
He had never strayed.

For sixty years he'd perched
Up there and so,
He'd seen both the good and
Bad times come and go.

With each change of the wind,
He moved around,
But this weather vane cock
Could crow not one sound.

Crafted by a blacksmith
So folks could know
From just which direction
Each day's winds did blow.

At times he looked lonely –
Sad, now and then –
The blacksmith should have made
A sheet metal hen

To share with him his roof
And lonely life,
To have and to hold, and
Be his loving wife.

He had no feather coat
To comb or preen,
But just stood proudly there
Where he could be seen.

When the rains washed him clean
Of barnyard dust,
He'd be neatly dressed in
His brown coat of rust.

But the world rolls around
And time goes by.
Nothing lasts forever,
Neither you nor I,

And our weather vane cock
Bid us all adieu
When his old pivot post
Just rusted right through.

Then a gusty breeze brought
A blur of brown,
Blew him from his high perch,
And tumbled him down.

We never dreamed he'd meet
Such a tragic end,
But still look up, and miss,
Our old metal friend.

HARVEST GOLD

The weather here in the Midwest is usually pretty much "seasonal," varying only enough from the norm to make for conversation. And this past summer was no exception. First we heard the complaint, "We didn't really have a spring. It finally went right from winter into summer." In quite a few places the crops got planted later than usual. Or at least later than the farmers would have preferred. Some areas had enough rain while others went dry. But that is usually the case. It's been a few years since I last heard that old tale about the rain showers that were really scattered and spotty. One old farmer had been shooting at crows in his cornfield when a rain came up and he took off for the house, leaving his old double barrel shotgun sitting in the fence corner. After the rain, one of the gun's barrels was half full of water. The inside of the other was bone dry.
Most of this year's crops seem to have made good progress despite the fact that we did not have the normal amount of heat. There were a few days with high temperatures and a lot of humidity, but most of the time temperatures were quite comfortable. Or "liveable" as some folks say. A lot of late summer days felt more like those we expect in early autumn.
We are blessed with some of the country's prettiest scenery here in the Driftless Area. And with four distinct, beautiful seasons to dress up the countryside and show it off to its best advantage. Of the four, it seems that summer is the favorite of most people. It is not uncommon for some folks to spend a good share of the other three seasons just anticipating and preparing for the hot weather time with its growing and ripening gardens and farm crops, also the swimming, boating, biking, ball playing, hiking, vacationing and all the other activities that go to make up a summer.
After the Fourth of July, pessimists begin to lament the fact that summer is half over and "on the downhill swing." We optimists prefer to try to hang on to whatever we have left of the great and gorgeous season, at least until school starts. And then we start looking forward to a bright and beautiful fall. Autumn is a glorious season and just the sugar coating required to make the bitter cold pill of winter a bit easier to swallow.


HARVEST GOLD

Between life and growth of summer
And dead winter's icy pall
Stands the glory season, autumn,
Brightly colored, gaudy fall.

Goldenrod, profusely gilded,
A wild beauty to behold,
Combine rumbles through the cornfield
Spewing stream of molten gold.

Stand of birch trees on the hilltop,
All decked out in golden tone
Brighten up early October...
Almost shed light of their own.

River bluff aglow with maples,
Yellow, orange-gold and red,
Quaking aspen make a brightly-
Hued umbrella overhead

And the deep red ivy bravely
Hangs on to defy the frost
While dark green pines, draped in sadness
Mourn another summer lost.

Walnuts wait there for the taking
And the butternuts are free.
Watch the squirrel reap his harvest
'Neath the shagbark hickory tree.

Spear of geese starts heading southward,
Seeking out a warmer clime,
Autumn – brief gold splash of glory –
Harbinger of wintertime.