It is November in Vermont. The in-between, stick season. Autumn: time for long sleeves, hats (the warm, not cute kind) and mittens. However, this past week was in the seventies. I stubbornly continued to dress for pre-winter and, although I did grin and bear it, I admit I perspired. We can’t really call this a late summer warm spell and it is too soon for early thaw so..there is only one thing to think.
Change.
Tuesday night the temperature suddenly reversed, another symptom of climate issues, and went down to 19F. This pacified those of us who the love cold. I bundled up and tucked animals in for the night with a satisfied look on my face. I stood and looked at the full moon and could see my breath.
Change.
My son reports predictions about every state having at least one day in the summer that will go above 100F. In my lifetime here, I have yet to have that happen so it is unthinkable for me. We’ve taken kids out for Halloween with them dressed in snow pants. I remember being stuck in snow on the way to my grandmother’s for Thanksgiving. You could begin to ski in early December, the only snow being made by clouds. Christmas vacation was the time for ski holidays in Vermont. Now, while choosing to look away, I see people in shorts in November and take my dogs for walks in dirty slush before Christmas.
Change.
The clocks have fallen backward and now it is full-on dark before five. I do look forward to this time of moving inward. Until now we squeezed every bit of light out of the day doing some kind of prep for winter. Earlier you could hear the steady hum of lawns being mowed well after dinner. Now I finish teaching at six, race out to feed sheep and shut chickens into their coops before starting dinner. Walking back to the house I stop, watch the moon rise and listen to the rattle of the leaf-stragglers on trees in the evening breeze. It seems but a minute ago that I stood here in full sunlight, enjoying the heat of the summer sun.
Change.
I found two ticks on myself this week: later than I’ve ever found them. Ten years ago ticks were not even an issue here. My sheep are eating hay in their winter paddock while looking longingly at the still-green pastures below.
Paul comes in from the shop whistling and talks about the beautiful day. Depending on the moment, I might grumble about how he should feel more fear than joy at this type of weather in autumn. He takes a moment to catch my eye and smiles, “regardless of whether or not we like it, it is what we have and if it’s a beautiful day, we might as well make the most of it.”
At fourteen, Sam spends a lot of his time stretched out beside the woodstove, lit or not. A black and white mop, he leans against the stone foundation and naps. When I come inside and shut the front door he opens one eye: sometimes he doesn’t hear me and eyes stay firmly shut. When he wants to go outside he often whimpers quietly until someone notices. His hind legs becoming weaker, I watch him work hard to pull himself up with his front legs and I walk over, lean down and haul up his back end with tears in my eyes. Once upright, he turns and looks at me, mouth in a smiling pant, and the big plume of his tail begins to wag. I open the door and he hops out, lifts his head to the warmth of the sun and takes great sniffs of the air, happy to be Sam. I recognize the lesson.