Chris Bohjalian's Blog - Posts Tagged "foliage"
The Alchemy of Autumn
It was 11 years ago now that Middlebury College's John Elder published "Reading the Mountains of Home," and I don't believe an autumn has passed since when I haven't spent an evening or two becoming reacquainted with a chapter or two from it. The book is a seemingly alchemic mash-up of memoir, natural history and appreciation of the magic and precision of Robert Frost. But "Reading the Mountains of Home" is a pretty magical experience in its own right, and the book is the perfect companion for a Vermonter in September.
The premise is simple: Elder walked around the woods and mountains that surround Bristol, Vermont, an Addison County village that boasts (among other attributes), a mannered green, a gazebo and a mighty fine creemee stand in the summer, using Robert Frost's 1946 poem, "Directive" as a guide. But Elder is such a thoughtful companion and his knowledge so vast that every chapter is filled with surprises about a topography we as Vermonters take for granted.
And the autumn is the perfect season either to reread the book or discover it for the first time. Why? Well, as Wendell Berry put it, "If you don't know where you are, you don't know who you are." And if Manhattan is all about skyscrapers and Florida is about wetlands (OK, wetlands and palmetto bugs the size of small cars), then Vermont is about foliage. It is about trees -- and, as Elder teaches, it is about multiple deforestations and the unexpected resiliency of the northern forest. To wit: We have such kaleidoscopically lush foliage in the Green Mountains this time of the year because years ago we cleared the state of trees first for sheep and then for logging: "Durable kernels from the deciduous trees bided their time for years in a buried seed pool, ready to burst upward from the ground exposed and torn by logging. The autumnal vividness that saturates (Vermont) is thus the offspring of two eradicated forests."
Moreover, the fall is the most wistful of seasons. We all understand on some level that those leaves are the neon of a Lady Gaga wig because they're dying. The tree itself is helping to kill them off, producing a Berlin Wall of cells at the base of the leaf where twig and stem meet, thus starving the leaf of fluids. Meanwhile, the leaf ceases production of chlorophyll, the potion behind photosynthesis and the source of all that green in the woods. The result? We finally get to see all the colors in leaves other than green.
The truth is, in September and October the entire world seems to be either dying or growing dormant. There are few images in my yard more depressing than the dead tomato plants in their cages in the autumn. And "Reading the Mountains of Home" manages both to capture that sense of melancholy and celebrate the importance of grieving as a human need and a human right. Elder's father died just before he embarked upon the book and -- along with Frost -- he uses the Vermont landscape to try to make sense of loss. Just as the fields around Bristol provide a transition between civilization and wilderness, so do the remnants of past communities in the nearby woods provide a liminal passage between mourning and healing.
Soon we will have our first small blazes in either a fireplace or a wood stove; some of us, I imagine, already have. That, too, is a rite of fall. I always look forward to those first late Sunday afternoons when I collapse on the floor in the den of my house with a book and a cat and a fire in my family's wood stove. And, invariably, once again this season one of those books will be Elder's exploration of this state we all call our home.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 20, 2009.)
The premise is simple: Elder walked around the woods and mountains that surround Bristol, Vermont, an Addison County village that boasts (among other attributes), a mannered green, a gazebo and a mighty fine creemee stand in the summer, using Robert Frost's 1946 poem, "Directive" as a guide. But Elder is such a thoughtful companion and his knowledge so vast that every chapter is filled with surprises about a topography we as Vermonters take for granted.
And the autumn is the perfect season either to reread the book or discover it for the first time. Why? Well, as Wendell Berry put it, "If you don't know where you are, you don't know who you are." And if Manhattan is all about skyscrapers and Florida is about wetlands (OK, wetlands and palmetto bugs the size of small cars), then Vermont is about foliage. It is about trees -- and, as Elder teaches, it is about multiple deforestations and the unexpected resiliency of the northern forest. To wit: We have such kaleidoscopically lush foliage in the Green Mountains this time of the year because years ago we cleared the state of trees first for sheep and then for logging: "Durable kernels from the deciduous trees bided their time for years in a buried seed pool, ready to burst upward from the ground exposed and torn by logging. The autumnal vividness that saturates (Vermont) is thus the offspring of two eradicated forests."
Moreover, the fall is the most wistful of seasons. We all understand on some level that those leaves are the neon of a Lady Gaga wig because they're dying. The tree itself is helping to kill them off, producing a Berlin Wall of cells at the base of the leaf where twig and stem meet, thus starving the leaf of fluids. Meanwhile, the leaf ceases production of chlorophyll, the potion behind photosynthesis and the source of all that green in the woods. The result? We finally get to see all the colors in leaves other than green.
The truth is, in September and October the entire world seems to be either dying or growing dormant. There are few images in my yard more depressing than the dead tomato plants in their cages in the autumn. And "Reading the Mountains of Home" manages both to capture that sense of melancholy and celebrate the importance of grieving as a human need and a human right. Elder's father died just before he embarked upon the book and -- along with Frost -- he uses the Vermont landscape to try to make sense of loss. Just as the fields around Bristol provide a transition between civilization and wilderness, so do the remnants of past communities in the nearby woods provide a liminal passage between mourning and healing.
Soon we will have our first small blazes in either a fireplace or a wood stove; some of us, I imagine, already have. That, too, is a rite of fall. I always look forward to those first late Sunday afternoons when I collapse on the floor in the den of my house with a book and a cat and a fire in my family's wood stove. And, invariably, once again this season one of those books will be Elder's exploration of this state we all call our home.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 20, 2009.)
A new leaf? Nope. An old one: Why we love fall.
It’s mid-September, that time of the year when the leaves begin their kaleidoscopic transformation in Arizona and tourists from around the world descend upon the state to savor the breathtaking foliage.
This fairy tale was brought to you by “Arizona Highway” magazine, which boasts in its October issue that autumn in Arizona is better than in Vermont. Make no mistake, I like Arizona. I like it a lot, especially the desert stretch of old Route 66 that links Seligman with the California border. Drive it at sunset.
But just because Flagstaff has sumac and aspens doesn’t mean that it offers leaf peepers a New England caliber fall. I asked readers last week what they love most about the Northeast’s phantasmagoric foliage extravaganza, and here is what they shared.
• Vicky Loven: “It’s the smell for sure. It’s the smell of things ending, yet even with your eyes closed you can inhale and bring the colors into your mind. It’s also a time when life around here winds down a notch. Summer folks leave and we rake our yards under crystal blue skies and wonder when the next smell will be that of snow.”
• Kristen McCarthy Farrow: “I grew up in Stowe and one of my favorite memories of foliage season is this. When I was ten years old, two boys I went to school with decided to make some cash while the leaf peepers were in town. They picked up red and yellow leaves, put them in Baggies, and sold them to the tourists on Main Street. I can’t remember what they charged, but it was maybe a dollar a bag. Hilarious!”
• Cherie Tinker: “Fall is for your secret Linus addiction – dragging out your favorite blanket and favorite flannel sheets and favorite pajamas from Vermont.”
• Jude Bond – who happens to be the Early Arts Coordinator for Burlington City Arts – shared a craft project that intrigued me because it’s colorful and involves rubber mallets: “I like to do this project when the first frost is threatening. I pick a variety of flowers the night before. In the classroom I usually work with one or two students at a time since it is very loud and they need supervision so no one gets hurt. We place the flowers blossom down on paper or smooth fabric (old white cotton bed sheets torn into squares work great), place waxed paper on top of them, and hammer away with rubber mallets. I have the kids wear safety goggles for protection from flying flower parts. The force of the hammering releases the pigment and makes a flower print on the paper or fabric. The children love wielding the rubber mallet and seeing the unexpected results of their effort. It’s loud and magical – two things preschoolers love.”
• Don Gale: “I always look forward to spending time in the woods working the sugarbush – repairing and adding lines. There’s the occasional chipmunk rummaging through the leaves. There are turkeys, ravens, deer, and even seldom seen moose and bears. The winds hint at the approaching winter. It’s peaceful. I feel closer to what life is all about – and God.”
• MaryLou DeCosta – bringing us back to the aroma of autumn: “When I was in the Army in 1979, I was at Fort Hood Texas for my first ever autumn away from New England. I was really missing the sight, sound, and smell of autumn. I received a large box in the mail, and went back to my room in the barracks to open it. Imagine opening a box of autumn in Texas. My father had gathered an entire box full of colored leaves and mailed them to me. As I was marveling over the wonder of it all, there was a knock at my door. When I answered, the young man standing there said, ‘This is going to sound crazy, but as I passed your door, I smelled autumn.’ I brought out the box and shared my New England Autumn in Texas with him. It was a magical day, thanks to my father.”
Now, Arizona has its scents, craft projects, and Proustian madeleines in the autumn, too. But Vermont remains the gold – and red and orange and purple – standard.
(This column appeared originally in the Burlington Free Press on September 15, 2013. Chris's new novel, "The Light in the Ruins," was published in July.)
This fairy tale was brought to you by “Arizona Highway” magazine, which boasts in its October issue that autumn in Arizona is better than in Vermont. Make no mistake, I like Arizona. I like it a lot, especially the desert stretch of old Route 66 that links Seligman with the California border. Drive it at sunset.
But just because Flagstaff has sumac and aspens doesn’t mean that it offers leaf peepers a New England caliber fall. I asked readers last week what they love most about the Northeast’s phantasmagoric foliage extravaganza, and here is what they shared.
• Vicky Loven: “It’s the smell for sure. It’s the smell of things ending, yet even with your eyes closed you can inhale and bring the colors into your mind. It’s also a time when life around here winds down a notch. Summer folks leave and we rake our yards under crystal blue skies and wonder when the next smell will be that of snow.”
• Kristen McCarthy Farrow: “I grew up in Stowe and one of my favorite memories of foliage season is this. When I was ten years old, two boys I went to school with decided to make some cash while the leaf peepers were in town. They picked up red and yellow leaves, put them in Baggies, and sold them to the tourists on Main Street. I can’t remember what they charged, but it was maybe a dollar a bag. Hilarious!”
• Cherie Tinker: “Fall is for your secret Linus addiction – dragging out your favorite blanket and favorite flannel sheets and favorite pajamas from Vermont.”
• Jude Bond – who happens to be the Early Arts Coordinator for Burlington City Arts – shared a craft project that intrigued me because it’s colorful and involves rubber mallets: “I like to do this project when the first frost is threatening. I pick a variety of flowers the night before. In the classroom I usually work with one or two students at a time since it is very loud and they need supervision so no one gets hurt. We place the flowers blossom down on paper or smooth fabric (old white cotton bed sheets torn into squares work great), place waxed paper on top of them, and hammer away with rubber mallets. I have the kids wear safety goggles for protection from flying flower parts. The force of the hammering releases the pigment and makes a flower print on the paper or fabric. The children love wielding the rubber mallet and seeing the unexpected results of their effort. It’s loud and magical – two things preschoolers love.”
• Don Gale: “I always look forward to spending time in the woods working the sugarbush – repairing and adding lines. There’s the occasional chipmunk rummaging through the leaves. There are turkeys, ravens, deer, and even seldom seen moose and bears. The winds hint at the approaching winter. It’s peaceful. I feel closer to what life is all about – and God.”
• MaryLou DeCosta – bringing us back to the aroma of autumn: “When I was in the Army in 1979, I was at Fort Hood Texas for my first ever autumn away from New England. I was really missing the sight, sound, and smell of autumn. I received a large box in the mail, and went back to my room in the barracks to open it. Imagine opening a box of autumn in Texas. My father had gathered an entire box full of colored leaves and mailed them to me. As I was marveling over the wonder of it all, there was a knock at my door. When I answered, the young man standing there said, ‘This is going to sound crazy, but as I passed your door, I smelled autumn.’ I brought out the box and shared my New England Autumn in Texas with him. It was a magical day, thanks to my father.”
Now, Arizona has its scents, craft projects, and Proustian madeleines in the autumn, too. But Vermont remains the gold – and red and orange and purple – standard.
(This column appeared originally in the Burlington Free Press on September 15, 2013. Chris's new novel, "The Light in the Ruins," was published in July.)
