Sunrise in the Rearview Mirror

It's that time of year: yo-yoing temperature, shortening daylight hours barreling toward the winter solstice, the expectation of color change, pumpkin/mum art at the Farmers' Market, cleaning out the garden, trying to decide when to pull the summer annuals and get the winter ones into the still-warm ground. And at work it's budget and pledge time, which means year-end then year-beginning procedures are not far behind. And that all adds up to long days at work.

The long work days start earlier than usual this year. In past years three people--me not being one of them--do the budget spreadsheet and multi-piece mailing to 600 households. This year, with a short staff and a new treasurer and finance committee chair, it has fallen by default to me. There is no one around who even knows I don't generally do this particular task. I work over 60 hours, not counting the four trips to the church on Saturday to check on the churning copier. Instead of a morning walk to watch the sun rise over the cemetery, I start the car in the dark each morning. On Wednesday, as I head down Hillsborough Street, I glance in my rearview mirror. And there is the giant orange orb, rising over the Capitol. It takes my breath away.

At the same time I am listening to the story on NPR about the Saudi woman sentenced to ten lashes for...driving. It’s not a law on the books, but a religious edict and a “societal norm” that bans women from getting behind the wheel of a car. I can understand, vision is greatly diminished by the burqa; they might, accidentally of course, run down a cleric. Rumor is that King Abdullah, who has decreed that women may vote in future elections (well, four years from now, which may be the next election since the one this week is only the third in the country's history), may have overturned the sentence. Someday the religious edict against gays marrying are going to seem, in retrospect, just as outlandish. In the meantime, hopefully the conservative push to write discrimination into the states' constitutions will fail. At least I can drive a car; and no one in my world thinks physical flogging is okay. We take so much for granted.

"Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear." With temperatures in the mid-80s and July-level dew points all week, it's hard to believe that autumn is around the corner. The plummet Friday night to the 40s, makes a believer of me. It's coming, and coming fast. A trip to Farmers' Market seals the deal. I ogle the huge pumpkins and the displays of fall vegetables. I buy a mixed flat of snapdragons (for the first time) and violas. The day is coming fast when the zinnias and vinca will not be spectacular. The question, as always, is when can I bear to pull them. I have pulled the marigolds; perhaps I can squeeze this first flat in. I look for firewood at the Market, but there's not much yet. It can wait.

In the Cameron Village parking lot, I observe a most unexpected event. An elderly woman opens her car door, then walks away from it and deliberately steps on several acorns caps to hear the delightful crackle they make. Then she gets in her car, closes the door, and goes on her way. I am enchanted.

Seeing the sunrise behind me has gotten me thinking about the surprises and delights (and disappoint- ments) of the summer. I had a wonderful vacation in the Pacific Northwest, spending several days with Emma and Wynne, wandering the streets of their Wallingford neighborhood with my camera and making muffins for them; and doing what they do when they are not working: beer at the corner bar where they are known, Wii (my first time!), Scrabble (they trounced me), bowling (held my own), babysitting the adorable Xelli and Decca; and a ferry ride to Whidbey Island. Then a surprise delightful Amtrak ride toward time with mother and sister. I discovered that you can go home again and it is a wonderful journey.

In the garden my banana tree continues to delight. It is taller each year, and blasts above gutter level this year. The annuals are their most beautiful; I am especially excited by the volunteer cosmos. I feel like a real gardener when plants I didn't plant this year fill the garden. My first foray into vegetable gardening meets with mixed success: the summer squash with their beautiful blossoms and bountiful fruit is gratifying. Brussels sprouts, peppers (there are some on the plants still, but not maturing), and eggplant are disappointing. Still, the old-skin eggplant bloom makes the planting worthwhile. The grape tomatoes are all I need, but there is no late season bowls-full of green ones to make the yummy soup recipe I discovered a year ago. I pick the last handful of pitiful-looking fruit for my Saturday pizza; today I will pull the rest of the vines. And the basil, though enough, was not lush and full. No pesto. Sometimes just enough is all we get.

The passion flower that blooms for the first time probably wins the prize for stun-value. And the elephant ear caladium that isn't supposed to return unless you dig up the corms and keep them warmish over the winter (I didn't) gives me most satisfaction; although the Persian shield and red/green coleus that I rooted in the house last winter and replant make me pretty darned happy. And when it is too hot to be in the garden, I try my hand at painting flowers. My friend Roberta's flowers on window glass panes hanging on the fence around her amazing garden inspired me. She, however, is an artist, so I didn't imagine that my attempts would match up to hers. And they don't, but never-the-less, I surprise myself with how well mine turn out.

On the downside, along with a tornado passing a half mile from my house and snapping trees in the cemetery and the surprising earthquake, are dumping a cup of coffee in my laptop, a leak in the roof, and knee surgery. As for the first two--it's just money. The bank account is relieved of any heft it might have been enjoying, but all is well. And the knees, the surgery takes care of the immediate problem--and another drain on the bank--but both knees are making their presence known now. They are announcing what is coming and can't be stopped: advancing age. I guess I might as well get used to it. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

A dear human being died this week. Wendell Manuel was a full-bearded man with a wicked sense of humor who seemed as unlikely as anyone to don a ministerial robe on Sunday mornings. He was the minister of the progressive Presbyterian church that was the shining spot in the four years my family lived in Starkville, M-I-crooked letter-crooked letter-I-crooked letter-crooked letter-I-humpback-humpback-I. Wendell baptized Emma and made me laugh through the time in purgatory--at least on Sundays. The past couple of years he has suffered horribly a Job-like existence. Parkinson's disease, three kinds of cancer, and a bagful of minor inconveniences--like pneumonia, a feeding tube, and lesions in his mouth. He wrote regular status updates and emailed them out to his broad constituency of friends and former parishioners in Virginia, North Carolina, and Mississippi, where he and Quinn returned in retirement to be near their sons. And each lengthy email was filled with his wonderful humor as he described all sorts of horrors no one should have to endure. An amazing man. Rest in peace, dear Manuel; and good life to you, sainted Quinn, who cared for Wendell and her elderly mother through it all.

This week I find the toad lily blooming! I have been watching for it. It is a bloom that rivals the passion flower in outrage- ousness. And that it opens at the end of the season, makes it all the more special. You have to wait for it. Yesterday I do something I rarely think to do. Stop. Lie down in the grass. Look up. I lie down under the banana tree and watch the clouds float by in the Carolina blue sky. I love clouds. And did I mention that I love my banana tree? Planting it was one of the more radical things I have done in my garden. A friend whose opinion I valued tried to talk me out of it. It's not natural in Raleigh, North Carolina. Sometimes I just don't feel like following the rules, and being predictable. There are three gardens in my walking radius that have banana trees and I wanted one. I ignored the talk and went for it. And it makes me so happy.

Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Sometimes we have to look back to see what’s coming up and what the new day will bring. Dream big. Dreams may be closer than they seem. Plant the banana tree. The small things may turn out to be the big things.