There was actually frost on the windshields of the cars parked on our street this morning. This is actually pretty doggone late for our first frost. (Damn you, global warming...) I pulled up the pathetic remnants of my pathetic garden on Saturday and chucked most of it on the compost heap in the hopes that it will ultimately break down to one day feed a more successful crop.
On Saturday, Freya and I went out to Spyglass Gardens, the farmstand I've posted about frequently over the past few months. This is the last weekend they'll be open until spring, which is a huge bummer. We spent quite a while visiting the "kitchens" and the proprietors' dog, Morgan. He's a big golden retriever that Freya has just fallen in love with. If I ask her, "Freya, do you want to go to the farm?" she immediately starts chatting about the kitchens, Morgan, and going with Grandpa. My dad usually tags along with us on our visits, so it is funny that Freya associates him so closely with poultry.
Anyway, it has been easy this summer to eat locally. It's about to get a lot tougher. I put up a lot of freezer jam, I've got probably 10 quarts of spaghetti sauce frozen, and enough frozen shredded zuchinni for half a dozen loaves. But that's not much to have stored. I know we'll have to make some concessions over the winter.
So I'm sure most of you are familiar with the title of this post. My fifth/sixth grade teacher (school was so small that we had both classes in one room) introduced us to this poem, along with many other things--premenstrual syndrome that needed medication and didn't receive it was another thing that was new to many of us and she handily provided. So the poem is by James Whitcomb Riley, and I pulled it from Bartleby.com.
WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here.
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin' birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!
I don't know how to tell it--but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me
I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
