November days have the hush of whispered moments about them;
in a haze of dreamy recollections we overlap memories -- collages
of doorwayed wreaths and cornstalks announce our brief stay in the
land of Pilgrims past, as nutmegged pumpkin meat and crisp apple slices
slide deliciously into the bowled present, heaped and ready for the
last golden dollop of butter before the layering. Cinnamoned and sugared,
they fill our pie shell present with captured time -- past and future --
spooned together, sweetly, for the swallowing.
Filled with ancestral promptings we prepare and celebrate through
taste and smell. Touching yearnings past -- inside circled safety --
we dust off shared memories of harvest moons, apricot mellow and full.
We clothe our insides with virtual pantries stocked: Winter root cellars
sectioned off for squash -- Hubbard and acorn, and for hardscrabble
winter potatoes, breathing easy in gunny sacks. We gather and store gingered cucumbers and pickled fish in jelly jar rows, mixed willynilly with piccalilli
and assorted dried herbs, bright and bushy for the hanging.
Outside, the paper birch and cherry are cut and stacked with corded elm and oak,
balanced with pine remnants, just for kindling. The stove is mirrored, the chimney
cleaned -- the nests of birds and squirrels transplanted.
We air out the moth balls and pause -- resting in the hush of whispered moments,
to savor this fall, this time of collection and recollection, this time of
patriots' needs shared and gathered, sufficient for Thanksgiving.
