Another Chance

October, so full of color. Walking down our road I pull my sunglasses down onto my nose so I can see with a proper filter. Everything looks like a party until the north wind begins to whisper, cold rain riding its back. Suddenly there are only a few tenacious leaves swinging precariously from their branch, the others piled on the brown ground, their final resting place. Change comes and stick season begins.

Leaves gone changes perspective on our world. Suddenly we see things that had been in hiding throughout the summer months. In the evening I look out and am able to see, through the bare branches, the light in our neighbors house. At the sink, cutting cutting vegetables for dinner, we are newly able to watch the sunlight slide up and over the mountain across from us.

Like the squirrels racing along the stone wall, cheeks pushed out by treasures found, we too race against winter’s arrival. We’ve already had a prophetic dusting of snow, a reminder of what stick season also reveals. We lay bales of dry bedding hay over empty garden beds, split the rest of the firewood and stuff it into the bulging shed. We pull the wood-splitter down, push the snowblower up.

We move our clocks back and fall behind an hour. Dark descends like a curtain on our rushing, ushering in a kind of hibernation. I bring bowls of potatoes and root vegetables up from the basement to make thick soups and stews. The window sill in the kitchen is lined with green tomatoes, the last vestiges of summer fruits. Flannel sheets on the clothesline, like plaid sails, billow in and out of sight. We burrow under them at night as temperatures drop and, if we leave the window open a crack, pull our wool blanket up under our chins.

At night we hurry out to put animals in. Paul and I sit on the step in the barn and watch our young Shetland lambs, three Musketeers, race around the barnyard, taking turns trying to mount each other for dominance. Better than any movie, we laugh hard as they spring into the air, marionettes lifted by strings. The older sheep side-eye them as they eat. At first it seems they are uninterested in the antics but suddenly Quince, our young Gotland wether, breaks into hopping, his mouth still full of hay. His full grown body isn’t quite as capable of the acrobatics of the young group but he mimics to the best of his ability. When sheep run fast, it is more a hop than a gallop. They stiffen all four legs, like a hobby horse on springs, and charge forward. Pownal, one of the lambs, bounces across the paddock and then, standing on hind legs, leaps on top of the mineral feeder, which spins under his weight. He makes this move three or four times, turning his head toward us and we applaud.

In the light of day, the lambs lay quietly in the corner, jaws working their cud contentedly. It is under the spotlight of the fall moon that they perform. We find ourselves pulling on sweaters after dinner and lining up to get tickets to the show. We shake our heads at the absurdity of the mounting. Anne looks over at us and, like any sibling worth her salt, springs across the paddock, her legs thin and stick-like under her round, white-fleeced body. We stay until our eyes begin to droop and then, reluctantly head back into the warm of the house.

Youth has changed the dynamic of the farmyard and we all want to drink from its fountain.

Our son Ethan adjusts his phone, testing it to be sure we can see everything of his living room in California. When set, he lifts newborn Charlie up close to the camera. We lean in reflexively for a closer view. Ethan cradles his son’s head, smiling in a new way that we don’t recognize. We clap when Charlie yawns, raising tiny fists simultaneously into the air, victorious at being born. Paul and I tilt our heads against each other’s making a pyramid so that we have equal opportunity to view our just-made grandson as he miraculously stretches. His father, our baby, content being in the background.

Youth has changed the dynamic of our family, we bask in its newness.

Days become shorter, we are content to come inside where it is warm. In the evening I push back the fabric of my shirt and look, for a long time at the new tattoo on my left wrist: MUIR. Some things added to our lives, some things taken away, life constantly moving. Our adventure continues as we grapple with the challenge of growth- the willingness to accept change.