Thursday, November 4, 2021

Conversations in Autumn

Inspired by Kahlil Gibran's poem "The Scarecrow," my adult writing students and I recently wrote about conversations with fall things -- a crabapple, an oak leaf, a pumpkin, a sheath of hay, and a scarecrow -- each of which take on their own personality.

Here are some of the writings by Nathalie Le Breton, Susan Donnelly, Lindy Low Le Coq and Ron Smith. Enjoy! 


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Fall Musings by Nathalie Le Breton


Once I said to an oak leaf “Did you fall too early?”

She did not respond.

She looked up for a bit at her sisters still perched on dark branches. And then she went rolling, alone, in the wind.

At times she had a few companions. Among them were flamboyant maple leaves, shriveled rose hips, and the crows, always the crows. But mostly she rolled alone in the wind.

Because she never responded, I often wondered if indeed she had fallen too early. But then I thought that some of us do need to fall early, and alone.

Don’t cry. It is not a lonely thing. Actually it is not lonely at all. Remember the maple leaves and the rosehips? And yes the crows! There’re always the crows… They might be odd companions, but while you roll alone they tell it as it is:

“Keep going!”

“Get out of here!”

“What are you looking at?”

“I told you so…”

So you see, the rolling is not so lonely even if you have fallen, maybe, a bit too early.

And sure, I wondered what happened to the oak leaf. Often I even wonder what will happen to me!

Maybe it is now time to imagine the rest of the story, you know, after the falling, after the rolling alone in the wind. She must have felt the rain, and the soft burning, and the rain again. She must have cried. She must have smiled. She must have lived beyond what I could see, beyond what I can even imagine. She must have lived beyond the fall.


About the author: Nathalie Le Breton is a French native speaker who has relocated in the Pacific Northwest. She enjoys exploring a different language as a form of personal discovery and melodic expression. She also enjoys reading poetry and children's books, knitting, drinking tea, and walking slowly through the seasons.


* * *


Walking the Neighborhood in Fall by Susan Donnelly


Once I said to a porch pumpkin, “How does it feel to wait on this cold concrete step for someone to give you a face?”

The mouthless pumpkin replied, “I am only doing what we all do – waiting for others to shape our  expressions.”

I glanced at the afternoon sky then back at his unetched skin and probed further, “But does it hurt to be carved, to feel the sharp edge, wielded in the hands of another, stab into your heart?”

 He said, “Ask yourself.”

I chose not to and went on down the shaded sidewalk pretending I preferred Autumn’s bright red maple leaves to dull orange pumpkins anyway.

Weeks passed; the days grew shorter and the nights colder. Rain pelted from dark skies.

One foggy morning, I walked past the same porch. The same pumpkin sat on the same damp step,

mold kissing his raggedly carved buck teeth. His triangle eye sockets had shrunk in on themselves, and all of his orifices oozed a sickly orange goo.

I approached cautiously and in a whisper asked, “How does dying feel?”

He responded, “You already know.”


About the author: Susan Donnelly, a retired middle-school teacher, walker, and dog lover, is a Portland poet who has studied with Linda Ferguson for a number of years.


* * *


The Kind Crabapple by Lindy Low LeCoq


Photo courtesy of Lindy Low LeCoq




















 





Once I happened upon a crabapple tree and said, “How bright and cheery your apples are! May I pick some?”

“Yes, by all means,” the tree replied. “I get tired of seeing them drop onto the pavement and rot away.”

Looking around, I could tell the tree was right. Buckets of its bounty, unable to find fertile
ground, were decaying in all corners of the roadway.

“I see,” I replied. “Thank you for permission. I’ve wanted to pick ripe crabapples for a long time - and here you are - your branches overflowing.”

“Yes, they are a bit,” the tree nodded. “So tell me, what do you want with my sour little pippins?”

“From these I will make an old fashioned pickle, one my grandmother made when I was very young.”

“Pickles? Hmm,” the tree thought for a moment. “You intend to make my tiny tart fruit even more sour?”

“Oh, no,” I assured it. “These apples will be bathed in a brine of cider vinegar, mixed with sugar and spiced with whole cloves and cinnamon sticks. They will absorb the aromatic flavors and fragrance and become delightful confections to accompany meals at my dinner table.”

“You’re sure about that?” The tree asked. “Wouldn’t a jelly be more useful?”

“Perhaps to some, but for my family pickled crabapples are a rare specialty that will brighten our autumn feast of Thanksgiving.”

“I see,” the tree said softly.  “Well you have carte blanche - pick away!”

Small, large, medium some bruised and blemished, I picked along the underside of the tree until my bag bulged, and oodles of crabapples were still left hanging.

“Thank you, dear tree,” I said as I hoisted the gift and turned to leave. “I may be back later, and for sure I’ll see you again next year.”

“That would be lovely. I enjoy having my pippins go to good use. The bees work diligently in spring to pollinate my pretty pink blossoms, I bask all summer in sun and drink the rains when they come so that in autumn I have a harvest for all who will partake.”

“Bless you, and when you smell the scent of roasting turkey waft upon the breeze around here, know that I will be serving your generous offering at my family’s gathering.”

“That’s a comfort - thank you.”

Photo Courtesy of Lindy Low LeCoq




About the author: After 30 years of counseling young adults, Lindy Low LeCoq now focuses her energy on writing, photography and landscape gardening. Her work has appeared in The Poeming Pigeon: In the News, Postcards, Poems & Prose and Plum Tree Tavernhttps://lindylecoq.com/author/lindyllll/


* * *


Sheaf, a Sketch by Ron Smith

A sheaf of hay stood opposite me on the other side of a farmer's barbed wire fence as I trod the road, hardly more than a trail, really just a rut, between Creswell and Saginaw.  Though identical to other bundles of hay, standing in a row like sentries along the fence, there was something singular about this sheaf of harvest.  It seemed larger than the others, perhaps only because it was the one closest to me;  it's straw yellowness seemed fresher and brighter than it's brethren straw, perhaps for no other reason than that a ray of sun pierced the morning's clouds, and fell on this favored sheaf, and none of the others.  For these reasons, because I was uncertain of my location and needed direction, and there was no one else around, I addressed the proud bundle of straw:

"I say there, ye, upright bundle of hay, who will provide sustenance for your master's livestock, ye who reflect the sun's gold in your reflected hue, ye, who know your place and purpose, can ya help me out?  I'm not familiar with this road, see, and am almost lost:  is this the road to Saginaw?"

Unaccustomed to being addressed by passersby, and painfully shy, the bundle of straw mutely looked to it's brethren hay bundles for support.  They, some wiser, gave ascent for the bundle to answer:

"Honored - sir, though - I am -  butasheafofhay . . . and - will - soon - find - my - parts inthebelliesof horses - and - asses, - I - can - state - with - certainty,"  so shy, they could barely continue, "with - certainty, - you - are - headedtoSaginaw."   

from The Idler's Sketchbook  10/16/2021

About the author: Ron Smith has been playing drums and been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with numerous musical instruments and hundreds of books, vinyl records, and CDs. 


* * *


A Chafing Chat by Susan Donnelly

Once I said to a scarecrow, “Straw is so prickly, do you itch all of the time?”

The stuffed figure tilted his oversized head – perhaps to ease some discomfort or perhaps to see my face better, and replied, “Yes, of course; we all do, just for different reasons.”


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