Where the green turns to yellow

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

I wonder, is it a time or perhaps a place? I have always thought that this was the time of year when gardens are put to bed, fields of corn and soybeans are harvested and a last cutting of hay is brought in. It is that back-to-school time when yellow buses travel the roads and cars stop to wait while children climb aboard, or at the end of the day wait while the children step down and run up the driveways and into their homes.

It is that time of year when I fold up my summer clothes and get out my sweaters and jackets. The time when I kick my sandals to the back of the closet and pull open my drawers to sort through socks in search of matching pairs.

It's the time of year when Greg and I gather up firewood and stack it in front of the house. We check the coolant in the radiators of all the tractors and old cars, and add more where necessary.

Yes, this certainly seems to be that time of year, but when I sit on the front porch and look out across the valley, I wonder. Could it be that when the green turns to yellow it is not only a time, but a place?

When I lived in the city, I was not aware of the places I know now. Surely, I saw the trees in the park change color and shuffled my feet through their leaves once they fell to the cobbled walkways. The morning glories and pansies in our window boxes died back, and my brother and I walked together along the sidewalk to our school across the park. It was that time of year, but now I see this time quite differently.

I see the creek valley turning from green to yellow along patterns, indeed very specific places, of change. I see a green leaf clinging brightly to a tree while its neighboring leaf is already yellow. The blue sky that shows between them is their line of difference, a place that I can reach up and touch.

I see the tops of the corn fields tasseled golden, each tassel waving above the still green leaves of the stalk below. When I look along the edges of the fields, the lines of demarcation are clear. I could the walk edge, green below and yellow above, my feet on solid ground, and know that this is a place.

When I look across the soy fields, I see a swirling pattern where some plants have turned to yellow, while others still grow bright green. Perhaps this is due to differences in soil composition or moisture. I really do not now, but the patterns remind me of the lines of a paisley print, a curving, tangible, two-dimensional design. Then, when I look far across the fields, I can see the straight green edge of the woods that border the swirls of yellow. This edge line is very clearly a place, a specific space marked by the border of the field and the woods.

So, as I sit on my front porch swing, the cool morning air requiring that I wear a flannel shirt, warm steam rising from my cup of coffee into the creek valley day, it occurs to me that this time of year is a place, and not just a moment in time. This time of year is the gardens. It is the fields. It is the woods, and then perhaps most importantly, it is a place in my heart.

From the front porch swing, I cannot see or hear my neighbors, but I can see the season. I wonder, dear friends, if you also know this time of year as a place. Perhaps you live in the city, or the suburbs, or in a small down. Perhaps like me you live miles down a one-lane country road and cannot see or hear the neighbors. I wonder what you know about where the green turns to yellow.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in Ohio south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.