The frost is on the pumpkin this morning. This is usually one of my favorite days, a decisive turning of the season. The leaves have been changing color and dropping for so many weeks now that it hardly seems special anymore, just as we take the green leaves for granted by July. But today it is clear that there is no turning back: the tomatoes that we thought could take a few more days to ripen must come out, the flower containers should be tucked in unless we want leggy impatiens.
But Jack Frost beat us to the punch this year. I have been informed by the Boiler Guy that our boiler is in need of a new gas valve, and that I should be ecstatic that they even make parts for it anymore. I’m used to discussions like this with my Volvo mechanic, but the boiler is only half the age of my car. It was installed when I was pregnant with Little One, and he’s not old. And like the Volvo, the part has to come from
No heat, and and Frost rapping at the window. We broke out the long underwear, filled the hot water bottles and bought a couple of space heaters, but Jack is laughing at us. Little One’s cough has turned all chesty, so I’ve kept him home, even though it’s warmer at school. We’ll add another layer and go hunt pumpkins this afternoon, but will plan to spend the evening eating out where it’s warm.
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
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