When I was a kid, my Dad had a sundial.
Yes, really. He was a history buff, and when he saw a lovely big brass sundial for sale somewhere - I don't remember where - he bought it, brought it home, and mounted it on a big white limestone pedestal he made himself. It was right in front of the house and was even adjustable for Daylight Saving Time. Dad had two notches in the stone pedestal that aligned with the noon marker on the sundial, and he could adjust it accordingly. I never carried a watch in those days, because why would I? And sometimes, when coming and going, I'd check the sundial.
The problem was that, in winter, the sun was low enough in the sky that the light diffused through the trees, and the sundial wouldn't cast a sharp enough shadow to tell time by. What works in Greece, it seems, won't always work in America's Upper Midwest. But the sundial was a novelty, a conversation piece, and something Dad just liked. He didn't really need it. He could tell the time by looking at the sky, remarkably to within half an hour or so. And he could tell the coming seasons by where the sun rose and set. He had markers, and I remember his being outside one late September evening, watching the sunset, and when he came in, he simply said, "Fall is here."
Autumn is a time of transition, a time of shadows growing longer. It's the time when the world around us starts to slow down. The summer birds leave; back in the Iowa of my youth, I remember one indicator was when the skeins of geese started passing overhead.
In fact, I remember a time when my maternal grandfather, a man with a singular wit, asked me if I knew why one side of a V of geese was always longer than the other. When I said I didn't know, he replied, "Because it has more geese in it."
Back then, of course, when the first leaves were just barely starting to turn and the first light frosts to appear, it was time for hunting. Squirrel season opened early in those days, usually before Labor Day, and while I usually couldn't wait to grab my .22 and get after them, the hunting was a lot better a little later. Hunting squirrels, but the big fox squirrels in the creek bottoms and the wily gray squirrels of the hillsides, taught me a lot. The sharp-eyed critters taught me patience, helped me develop my skills at moving quietly in dry autumn woods, and how to plan, set up, and execute a stalk. My Mom didn't mind me bringing in four or five squirrels a day, and she produced a stream of casseroles and stews with them.
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Now, here in the Great Land, fall comes early. I'm writing this in the last week of August, and already the leaves on the birches are starting to turn yellow. Our summer birds are mostly gone. The swallows left weeks ago; the robins are almost all gone, with just one or two males lagging behind. The sandhill cranes have formed up their high-flying formations and headed south, and last week we noticed our juncos were gone; they are normally among the last summer birds to leave, in mid-September, and their early departure this year has me wondering what the coming winter will be like.
Our chickadees, nuthatches, and gray jays are still here, of course; they are permanent residents.
Autumn here, while it arrives rather earlier, has one thing in common with the autumns of my youth, as it's the season to hunt. I'm always tempted to go out after moose, but once you down a moose, you have a daunting task ahead. I like hunting grouse. You can shoot a grouse, put it in your game bag, and go find another. Early in the season, when they've been eating berries and bugs, they are delicious. In fact, in early October, we have a trip planned to explore some new grouse and ptarmigan country.
Soon, the Great Land will pull a blanket of white over itself and sleep until spring. The sun will grow lower in the sky, rising later in the morning, setting earlier in the evening. We have our markers; when looking out of our bedroom window, when the sun sets south of the power lines, we know fall is here. Our summers are beautiful but short. I'm fond of telling visitors that Alaska, like most places, has four seasons, but that ours are June, July, August, and winter. Now, this year, this monumental year, we're not yet into September, and autumn is at our doorstep.
The wheel of the seasons never stops turning. I understand there are places on the earth where the seasons never really change. They may be slightly warmer or cooler, or rainier or drier, but it's not a dramatic change. I think I'd be bored by that. The seasons punctuate our year. Every fall, every winter, every spring, every summer is different; every new season brings something new.
Autumn is a time of transition - from warm to cold, from long days to short ones. It's here now. The shadows are growing longer. The nights are growing cooler. We should welcome it - because it's happening, regardless.
