We are half way through October, which has been very warm, almost freakishly warm. Good for the heating bills but odd nonetheless to this native Mainer who is used to crisp autumn weather in October. Clif and I still spend a little time on the patio when he gets home from work, and we keep saying, “We won’t be able to do this much longer.”

I have a friend whose birthday is on October 24, and she maintains that by then it is always too cold to sit on the patio or deck. In the old Maine, she was right. Clif and I are wondering if she’ll be right this year.

Warm or not, October is a month of beauty, of red, orange, and yellow  leaves, of bright blue skies. The light is especially fine—golden and at a slant.

Slowly, I am getting the gardens cut back. Once or twice a week I sweep the driveway, but it is a fool’s errand. Several hours later, more leaves have fallen. I have emptied and scrubbed some flower pots, but we still haven’t had a hard frost, and the coleus remains untouched.

Here are some October pictures of the yard at the little house in the big woods:

Today is cool and brisk and breezy. Too chilly, I fear, for lunch on the patio, but a very good day for hanging laundry. The hummingbirds seem to be gone for the season, and I am reminded, yet again, what a time of subtraction fall is as various birds head for warmer places For many birds, fall is the time for the great migration, and how far some of them travel. The birding community is agog with this seasonal occurrence, and dedicated birders find migration flyways where the birds group en masse as they go south. Casual birders like me note the comings and goings in our backyards and bid a sad farewell to the summer birds.

This time of year, the gardens are ragged—there is no other word for it. There is a burst of pink here, a sliver of red there, but nothing is really in bloom, and its lovely days are mere July and August memories. But the finches are still cheeping and the males are still bright yellow and the bees are still working what’s left of the bee balm. Grasshoppers jump from tattered leaf to tattered leaf, and the crickets’ songs are loud and sweet.

With its deep blue skies and sunny days, September in Maine is beautiful, and I am glad it is my birth month. I especially love the nutty smell of the various wild plants as they go to seed. The days are still long enough for bike rides when Clif comes home from work. I make sure that vegetables are chopped so that dinner goes together lickety-split when we return at 7:00 or 7:30. The night before, it was turnips and potatoes for patties, and there was fresh homemade bread and green beans to go with the patties. This afternoon, I’ll put chicken, potatoes, and carrots in the slow cooker, and a hot meal will be waiting for us after a cold ride.

This weekend, we are planning our annual Hallowell to Richmond ride, an event I always look forward to. We’ll probably go on Sunday, and I’ll bring my camera so that I can take pictures as we bike along the Kennebec River.

We are nearly half-way through this lovely month, and the next event I eagerly anticipate is the making of apple pies with crisp, fall apples. I’ve already found a couple of people who would like some pie—a whole pie is simply too much for Clif and me. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find some more people who would like pie, and I can make three or four of them.

I do like making apple pies.

Unless the weather is very bad, each day the dog and I take a walk to the Narrows, which comprise two large and lovely ponds, the Upper and the Lower Narrows. In truth, both Narrows are big enough to be mistaken for lakes, and in some parts of the Lower Narrows, the water reaches a depth of one hundred feet.

The Narrows are about a quarter of a mile from the little house in the big woods, and sometimes it takes the dog and me over an hour to go there and come back home again. This is not a walk for exercise—for that I ride my bike—this is a walk for me to look and take pictures and for the dog to sniff and pee.

Why are people drawn to water? Is it because our bodies contain so much of it? According to the U.S. Geological Survey, “the brain and heart are composed of 73% water, and the lungs are about 83% water. The skin contains 64% water, muscles and kidneys are 79%, and even the bones are watery: 31%.”  That’s a lot of water in one body.

Is it because we instinctively know that water is essential to life, and we are therefore attracted to lakes and rivers?

Whatever the case, many, many people feel the pull of water, and in Winthrop, essentially a bit of land surrounded by lakes and ponds, the population swells in the summer as people come to stay in camps and seasonal homes. The inland influx of people doesn’t compare to to the coast’s influx, but the population increase is noticeable to Winthrop’s merchants, and it really helps them get through the year.

Taking pictures of the Narrows while walking the dog is a tricky affair, and as I’ve noted previously, only a small camera will do. The retractable leash is locked short, and I hold it between my knees when I take pictures. In the winter, gloves must come off, and this further adds to the merry confusion.

Yesterday, I took the following two pictures on our walk:

Here is a picture from today’s rainy walk. (This one’s for you, Shari Burke.)

I’ve been thinking of doing a series of photos called From the Water’s Edge. Clif and I will be participating in a number of craft fairs this fall and winter, and I was thinking the Water’s Edge pictures could be framed and displayed all together on one of the stands Clif has built. Clif has some good water’s edge photos, too, and his could be added as well. Naturally, I would also make cards with the photos.

Often the edge of water—ponds, lakes, rivers, the ocean—is the most interesting place to take pictures. The angle combined with the shoreline plants, rocks, logs, and various other items make for good composition in a picture.

The edge is also a good place for a writer (and a photographer) to be, gazing outward, seeing the view from many angles.