SOUNDS OF AUTUMN HEARD ACROSS THE LAND

Unless it falls in the night, I think I hear the first acorn of the season falling on the top of Bob's metal-roofed shed. It is an invitation to adjust the ears a bit to pick up the sounds of autumn.

The acorn sounds are tentative at first, such as, "Oops, I didn't meant to let go so soon," but then they get more assertive and numerous as if the old tree is shaking itself to get rid of this year's attire and make plans for the new, which won't take place until next spring. But secret, necessary things are taking place in the roots, limbs and twigs as they lay out blueprints for the future.

Chirring squirrels increase their tempo. They are overcome with so much maturing wealth and wish to claim it all for themselves. They quarrel outrageously with the blue jays who are never outdone in this exchange. Their disputes awaken a dog that awakens another farther off dog that awakens another, etc. Sometimes I think it is the quarrel heard 'round the world.

If all else is relatively quiet, and I am near the row of nearby pine trees, and the pine cone is big, I can hear its soft thud as it hits the ground. The note is negligible in the overall fall symphony. What it does is hush the crickets for a measure.

Some cool night, not very far away now, the hoot owl will come to the pine trees and give his eerie assessment of the situation. I hear the owl in the early, still dark, morning hours and smile sleepily at his appraisal. He gives more than two hoots about our local premises.

Another autumn sound that one can still hear in the country and some suburbs is that of the saw making small chunks of big chunks of wood so they will fit into the fireplace opening.

This used to be a slow, measured sound as one man pushed while another, at the other end of the long saw, pulled. Not anymore. It is the sound of the chain saw that, like everything else, gets things done in a hurry now. I watched neighbor Dick's woodpile grow, wide and tall, the cut ends of the logs so fresh and moist, the damp sawdust reminding me of old woodyards where it was my duty to pick up chips and kindling to start the morning fires. The piled-up cut ends of the stacked logs makes an interesting "country" mosaic worthy of a photographer's time.

The almost continuous running motors of lawn mowers and air conditioners are beginning to disturb the airwaves less and less. For great snatches of time now, in the absence of these motors, one can hear the sweet, contented chatter of the goldfinch as they continue to eat and eat and eat the proffered food. Seems as if they would get fat, but I have yet to see a fat bird, unless it is an old hen and then you suspect it might all be just fluffed-up feathers.

Sometimes, I just to keep a tenuous hold on the disappearing sounds of morning, I buy whole grain coffee and grind the beans in my antique grinder. Getting a whiff of the freshly ground beans is almost as uplifting as the resulting brewed coffee, and the crunching noise the grinder makes reminds me that everything didn't always come so easy, but the preparation was fulfilling and rewarding.

The wind hasn't shifted enough yet nor blown with such force as to awaken the whistling window, but I expect that any day now. For a few years it didn't whistle and I missed it so. Some putty and paint man had put a stop to it. But the putty/paint has sufficiently dried now so that the wind finds a space to blow across.

What if it runs up the heating bill a little? A perfectly silent house has no character. Why, I sometimes sharpen my knives on the rim of an old blue crock which makes a nice grating sound and sing like Kate Smith, which also makes a nice grating sound. My singing, that is.

I can't classify the crow caws as an autumn sound. Those old, black fellows have been around all summer. I think large delegations of them stayed over from last fall's convention, knowing what a full agenda they're going to have this year, re-inventing Crowdom, re-apportioning corn fields and reducing the number of Crow Potentates.

It is too early for the sound of the wild geese, but when that comes the symphony will have reached its peak and trail off into the brittle sounds of winter. Until then, listen for the very last cricket, the very last robin's song.

REJOICE!