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Red maple leaves float along our wooded path on a cold morning. Out with Jasper-the-Westie for our morning walk, I wear a fleece and my husband wears a vest. Hands in pockets, we’re warm.
After a mile or more, the darkness of the woods opens up to a sunny meadow and we stretch out along a wide strip of grass cut by the farmer on whose land we are walking. Views abound, with the Green Mountains of Vermont in the distance to the east and the Adirondacks to the west, towering above Lake Champlain just down the hill. I admire the majesty but my gaze is quickly drawn elsewhere, towards the fields where the giant goldenrod mingles with the blue-stemmed goldenrod, next to the stands of red clover and thorny purple thistles. They’re great for bees, birds, and butterflies, but thistles are the bane of Jasper’s existence – and mine too, when they curl up on his feet and legs.
The most amazing are the asters, fall favorites since I was a kid in Iowa. Back then, I occasionally walked along the local railroad tracks with my dear Aunt Harriet, when she was coming back from Florida for a visit. Information in Harriet’s history Golden guide to flowers is minimal. Still, I like to take it off my shelf to remind myself, for example, of how many kinds of asters there are – almost 150 varieties, according to its 1950 edition. Unless you have my own “plant finder” with it. I never know if the few purple flowers I just picked are New York asters, New England asters or St. Michael’s daisies, also a variety of aster. It does not matter. Their brilliant color in the little blue vase on my windowsill brings joy, both for the day and for my memories of Harriet.
Another morning in this same meadow, a large stand of gray dogwoods calls my attention. Their white berries on shiny red stems cluster profusely among mostly still green leaves, some already red. My botanical guide tells me that the gray dogwood protects and symbolizes charm. Of course, I would be drawn to that.
But the branches of gray dogwood are difficult to arrange, every time I cut a few off to bring home. Once I get it right, they bring intense pleasure to their place on my kitchen counter. They still have their dedicated container, a spotted beige pitcher from McCarty’s Pottery in Merigold, Mississippi. The pitcher was a gift from an old high school friend, while visiting Vermont with his wife from their home in the south. It offers the pleasure of connection.
And now, on a recent fall afternoon, I just brewed my first herbal tea in years, a batch of “Backyard Bitters”. A program at an organic farm near me called Autumn Bitter Root Remedies promised a weed walk that would focus on “identifying and benefiting from the herbs and bitter roots that are commonly found in the landscape.” agriculture of Vermont ”.
We were invited to collect and transform some of the bitter roots into classic fall tonics. The group, all of us women, gathered outside by a large barn, and we were handed a recipe sheet. The fun consisted of walking the fields in search of roots and herbs and returning to our original location to chop them up and put them together in a container, all while talking and asking questions. In the end, we were reminded of the benefits, especially for digestion, of using these naturally growing dandelion, burdock and yellow dock roots, in combination with herbs and sprinkled with a generous amount of vodka. .
As I shake my concoction day after day for weeks until it’s ready, I remember a previous incarnation of myself, almost lost with the passing of time. With a lot of people in the ’70s, my husband and I were committed to growing our own food and processing it for year round use – our attempt to live lightly on the planet.
In my Birkenstocks and my jeans, long hair rolled up and held in a barrette, I took care of what we were pushing first and then looked for what was wild. Our land offered apples, black walnuts and succulent bunches of purple grapes. The apples were easy to pick and turn into applesauce and apple butter, but the nuts were a challenge. In the end, we learned from a neighbor that it was easier to loosen their outer skin by driving a car over them, back and forth until the nuts eventually emerged. The grapes, on the other hand, were pure pleasure. Following my old grandmother’s instructions, I made delicious jars of juice to store for the winter, row after row, in the large green canning cabinet near my kitchen.
How happy I am to remember us – Aunt Harriet, my Mississippi friends, a grandmother and, yes, an aspect of myself. Dear companions, as autumn arrives.
Mary K. Otto, formerly of Norwich, lives in Shelburne, Vermont. Readers can email him at [email protected].
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