This time of year—late October, early November—my walks gravitate toward a specific corner where two trees grow. I could show you a picture of them, but then you’d only know what they look like, and not what I see.
They’re a mismatched duo, a Mutt and Jeff of trees. One is a maple, about twenty feet tall, round in shape above a sturdy trunk, with those wonderful deeply cut leaves that rustle and dance in the breeze. The other, a blue noble fir, towers over its partner at thirty-five feet, a slender cone covered with densely packed needles that shrug off the weather. They’re both handsome trees, well-formed, healthy, and in spring and summer, the maple’s green leaves are a good match to the fir’s bluish cast. This this time of year, though, they become a spectacular complementary pair as the maple leaves slowly yellow and then turn a bright, happy orange.
My steps slow as I approach them and take in their contrasts. The fir seems even bluer, set off by the maple’s fire, and as I pass I see that where their branches come close, almost touch, the maple’s leaves have yet to fade, as if the blue of the fir is leaching out, keeping them green for just a little while longer. It’s like the fir, having enjoyed the company of its companion, is urging it to stay, have one more drink, before departing for its winter slumber.
In a few weeks, the fir will stand next to the scaffolding of its dormant friend, braving the winter alone, wishing for spring, and my walks will wend away to other areas, other avenues, other vistas. The memory of the orange and blue will stay with me, make me smile through the dark of winter and the greenery of next year, until their return, and we all meet again.
On clear, cold afternoons, when the sky is a robin’s egg blue and the sun has just melted the frost off the shaggy lawns, I hear the machinery of modern yard maintenance fire up. Mowers, blowers, strimmers, and edgers set up a whirring, sputtering rumble that blankets the neighborhood as homeowners take advantage of a rainless November day.
It fades, Summer does. It does not leave in a rush or slip away overnight. It fades, its brilliance seeping into the ground, the sky, the air.
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 