Summer Over Autumn

By Howard Mansfield

Floating, paddle at rest, my kayak is adrift in the middle of the pond as I look at the mountain It’s mid-August

The light is silvery and soft. I can see a weakening of the green, and here and there like a splattering of paint, the first yellow leaves

Autumn is beginning to slip out from under cover. I think of this moment as its own distinct time, as “Summer Over Autumn ” This is the moment that precedes the fall snap, the great colors, and the final bare season in November

Summer is in high season you’ll never eat better tomatoes or corn, but the first apples are ready for picking, the evenings are cooler, and the day’s heat lacks conviction Summer at this moment is a party, but the party is already over. August in northern New England is poignant, a quick curtain call for the green earth, for summer’s heat, and for the gardens

S u m m e r O v e r A u t u m n i s n ’t a s e a s o n . I t ’s a g l i m p s e , t h e moment when we see the skull beneath the skin, the death that is always part of life. “In the midst of life we are in death,” as the Book of Common Prayer says

It’s a moment poised on the seesaw, right at the fulcrum, a moment of passage. Sitting still, you can feel summer passing, retreating as fog retreats It’s like passing through a doorway If we could inhabit a still-point, floating as if we were in a kayak, would we be aware of the many doorways we daily pass through?

The pond is one such doorway. We have seen loons nest, raise a fluffy, awkward chick, and then at season’s end, fly off. None of this looks easy, and each summer it seems as if the loons are inventing it all over again the way the chick at first rides on the mother’s back, then the stage where it is on its own in the water, but looks like a floating toupee. And when the loons are getting ready to fly away, they have to flap their way down the length of the pond to rise just a few feet To clear the trees, they have to circle again. They look less like birds than someone earnestly impersonating a bird

Turtles; snakes; salamanders; the occasional otter family; a bald eagle fishing; pink lady’s slipper orchids; dragonflies; kingfishers; big rocks that have shifted, fissured, and shed parts of themselves; tall trees that shaded us one summer, died the next, and by and by fell over, giving rise to other trees, plants, and insects. All these we have seen at this one pond while adrift.

And we have seen people come and go There was a young couple who lived in a small cottage near the pond. I’d see them working on their place None of that came easy, either He always seemed to have a circular saw in one hand; she was balancing a baby on her hip, and keeping her eye on their two-year-old, while trying to hold a board for him She looked as tired as those women in the photos from the Depression-era Dust Bowl.

For a couple of summers, I’d walk past them in this formation, or stop sometimes to chat What happened next happened in winter, I guess. They separated and divorced. He got ver y sick, and I last saw him in town He was confused, under heavy medication, and too thin, the death in him showing. He died not long after; other couples have come to live out their dramas in that cottage

Summer Over Autumn will never make the roster of mini seasons like Mud Season and Black Fly Season It’s just too short It’s like a ferry ride described long ago by the eighth-century Chinese poet, Tu Fu: a group of “dandies” and young women set out on a fine summer’s day but, as Carolyn Kizer translates:

Above us a patch of cloud spreads, darkening

Like a water-stain on silk

The women in their “crimson skirts” are drenched by a downpour The ferry trip home is cold and wet

Like a knife in a melon, Autumn slices Summer.

This essay is from Howard Mansfield’s Summer Over Autumn: A Small Book of Small Town Life (Bauhan Publishing, 2017)