The end of a season in Michigan can be easily marked. Cooling temperatures of the evening slowly begin to erase green from the tops of the trees, urging them to change into oranges and yellows by the morning. And in it’s path, it warns us to take late night wanderings through the garden, to pluck any last tomatoes we can find, to bring them in and preserve them for the long winter months to follow. Like squirrels we begin hoarding the freshness of summer, fearing an opportunity loss by the morning. And as the warmth of these September days surrender themselves, a breeze hits our dining room table, telling me to turn off our ceiling fan and find a sweater. Come bedtime I have found socks for my feet and a heated blanket for my bed just in case.
Fall is tricky like that around here. Even though you aren’t ready for it to come, it is already in motion. Without my recognition, our tomato plants have begun to slow their production. Our sandwich tomatoes are becoming smaller the colder it gets at night. The last of our cherry tomatoes, which have been hanging on the vine green for some time now, have begun to drop prematurely from their branches, not yet red. I am not ready for this transition. It has been months since we have had to go to the Farmers’ Market or grocery store for tomatoes. For a season I have taken advantage of our tomato plants, happily pawing through them each evening before I go up to our apartment to start dinner.
But all good things must come to an end, and when Mother Nature closes a doors, she opens a window… isn’t that how that cliche goes? Either way. Cliche or no cliche, Fall is here, in Michigan. And our garden, that we spent hours tending to, is now ready to be rooted out so our soil can be cleansed for next year’s crop.
Hello, Fall. I’m so glad you’re here.
And, until I can venture out to the garden again, I’ll be sure to spend some extra time in our botanical living room, where the sun is always sure to pour in and I can smell the coffee from the other room.