View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” is how John Keats described it, and it is finally here! Gone are the hot, sticky days of summer, where weeds grow like trees and the mosquitos feast on my sweaty skin as I struggle to keep up with the swiftly growing grass and the ripening vegetables. Not that I dislike summer. I love summer and treasure its sweet mornings of mellow early sunrises amid vivid greens and blushing roses.

But in Minnesota, we have seasons. And so, that we wouldn’t weep over the passing of one season over the other,  each season as it fades, shows us its least favorite trait. Pristine winter turns grey and mushy. Spring lingers with wet, cold winds. And summer…it becomes overdone, its glory fades into tired, withering leaves. Even my favorite, fall, or the more poetic word: autumn, becomes grey, the trees shivering leafless; as we all wait in breathless anticipation for the first magic snowflakes.

But now fall is showing itself in all its glory. The air is crisp and reminds me of the country of my childhood and youth where the sounds of late summer and early fall echoed through the woods with the loud ping blueberries and lingonberries made as they were being thrown by the handful into metal pails. The sweet, yet sharp smell of burning leaves would be all over the place, while the cold wind would sting my face.

But here, in this place, in this period of time, autumn is just as precious. The lake turns darker blue reflecting the sky. The mist hovers in the mornings, indicating the difference in water versus air temperature. Today, the strong northeast wind blows the white caps at an angle across the water, driving the mist like smoke before it. The sea gulls squeak as they circle above, looking for fish, which must be plentiful these days judging from the multitude of fishing boats dashing back and forth. I also love to watch the coots, who always seem to swim in big floats as it were, each bird knowing in which direction the flock will be moving next. The loons are still around, although they are harder to spot in their winter colors. But I can hear their call in the early evening and see how they dive for fish right outside our windows.

It is time to go back to the farm, where the chrysanthemums are in full, colorful bloom ranging from the vivid yellow to the more subtle muted mauve. The asters are doing well this year, their purple dark against the yellowing leaves of the hostas. I planted pumpkins this year, finding a small package of pumpkin seeds among those of the peas and the cucumbers. It appears the tiny seeds turned into gigantic pumpkins with molted skin, weighing in at about 20 pounds at least. I needed help to put one on my patio next to my bottle tree, spikes with blue and green bottles, a tradition brought over from the Congo by the slaves to ward off evil spirit.

There are, indeed, no evil spirits, but only joy here in this place, the prairie stretching before me with its vibrant colors of blue and yellow on this the autumn day that the Lord has given me.