JOY ALONG THE WAY: EARLY INVITATION TO THE GYPSY BALL

I received my invitation to the Fall Festival of Gypsy Colored Leaves early this year. Being still bemused by the pink and white patients and Heavenly Blue Morning-glories, I almost missed it. But there it was, hanging in the pink dogwood tree.

I was just sitting on the porch watching the day come in. I know just what tree, near or far, will feel the sun's first long, poking fingers. I know the cardinals will be first at the feeders. I can't tell which squirrel will come down, headfirst, from the big oak. They all look alike to me. But that coming down headfirst always grabs my attention.

But what was this red thing hanging in the dogwood tree? It wasn't there yesterday, was it? As daylight grew stronger, I thought, "Oh, it is just that little red building I see through the leaves." I waited to be sure. When the squirrels were all down and the nuthatches and chickadees were at the feeder along with the cardinals, I could see clearly. It wasn't just a single red leaf I've considered my invitation to the Gypsy Festival, but a whole branch of leaves, all red! It sent a thrill through me like Wordsworth's host of daffodils and rainbow in the sky. This bigger than usual invitation seemed to portend a great and wondrous autumn.

I must try my best to get up into the colorful hills of home where this great ball is held each autumn. They begin after crossing Castor River and go all the way up through the Bellview Valley to as far as I usually go which is about Potosi. By that time I've viewed Devon, Shepherd, Big and Little Stono, Simms, Brown, Beauford Mountains and dozens of others in the Southeast Ozarks, including Gillman's Hill. This latter, though humble in size compared to the others, is my favorite. It was right there at hand when I walked out the front door of the farm house, and it had all the trees that the others had. In the Gypsy Season there is the red-gold of the sassafras and sumac, the yellow and red of the various maples, the multi-colored sweet gums, the crimson exclamation marks of the sour gum, and the shining russet of the oaks, like bass singers undergirding the chorus.

For my RSVP I break off some of the prettiest red leaves of the invitation, bring them in the house and place them in separate places between the leaves off one of my heaviest books.

When these leaves are dried and flat, I'll tie a little nametag to the stem, prop them up against glasses of amber cider and use them as place cards. Since I'm already collecting molted bird feathers. I may stick them through the leaves, a la cupid's arrow through the heart. Move over, Martha Stewart!

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.