JOY ALONG THE WAY: SEASON OF MISTS, MELLOW FRUITFULNESS -- ALMOST

Looking up from my early morning, porch swing coffee cup, I was startled to see, through the limbs of the tall pink dogwood, that my neighbor had painted one of his outbuildings a rather startling red. At least that is what I thought.

My "before sunrise" eyes, further challenged by steam arising from the coffee, were playing tricks on me. After a few seconds of intense staring, I realized the red was from a small branch of the dogwood. "Red already!" I said aloud, sending some house finch fluttering from the nearby feeder.

As the day grew brighter I saw that this touch of red was not the only non-green color on the dogwood. Up above the red leafy branch was a spot of pink. Over on the other side were dots of rusty red, burgundy, wine red, sunset crimson. It was as if the old tree was trying out rouges to see which one she wanted to wear for her autumn makeup.

"Autumn!" I exclaimed, again aloud. I have to keep my vocal cords in shape. By this time the cardinals were at the feeder and they paid no attention to my muted outburst. They wanted to get their fill before the sleepy-headed squirrels arrived.

I'm not sure about the supply of acorns this fall for the squirrels. Every morning I've been sweeping from the back walk premature acorns that have fallen from the saw-toothed oak and premature acorns of the pin oak from the front walkway.

I thought it time to amble over to the big white oaks in the Park to see what was going on with them. This takes me alongside the hedgerow which reminded me that it was time to offer my reportage, without portfolio.

I saw no grapes on the wild grape vines. Sterile things! Big much ados about nothing! Poison oak reaches out long branches as if to pull one into its painful trap. Aftermaths of honeysuckles are blooming, almost as fragrant as the white blossomed autumn olive now draping over a porch banister. Great specimens of ragweed are here and there in the hedgerow, almost appearing to be so placed by some landscape artist. Ragweed does not bother me, so I give no wider berth to it than I do the goldenrod and wild asters. Where years of spilled trumpet vine seeds have landed, there are dozens and dozens of little "trumpets" springing up.

The ash trees are beginning to dangle their little clusters of seed pods. For some reason, they appear like Japanese decorations to me. I wonder what they would look like, sprayed with lacquer red and arranged in a black vase. Might try it.

When I arrived at the mighty oaks, I found that the premature fall of acorns is going on there too. I pulled down a low growing branch where I saw a cluster of acorns. There were five in the cluster; three were dried and fell to the ground at my touch.

On my return trip I picked up two bird feathers. My little friends are helping me collect them.

"What'll we do with them?" one asked.

"Oh, just marvel at them," I replied. "Here's a blue jay's. This one is a mocking bird's." I think they understood my word, marvel, as they from my bowl of them to stroke softly with their little fingers.

Later, I turned my Mary Englebreit calendar to see what September had coming up and there, right at the top were some lines from Edgar A. Guest: "The children bring us laughter, and the children bring us tears. They string our joys like jewels bright, upon the thread of years."

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.