The sun light reflecting off the bright red leaves of the pin oak outside the window casts a rosy hue to everything and reminds me of our first autumn in Eugene, six years ago.
When we first moved to Oregon we lived in a little old house with little old windows, multiple small sheets of glass set in cedar frames. The windows steamed up when we boiled water in the kitchen. The window glass was so old it had started to droop and ripple like water, and when it rained and the droplets ran down the panes it made the world look like a Monet painting. There was a carved mantle over the fireplace (which we couldn't use because the chimney was cracked).
The day we rented it, S bought an orchid for me and surprised me by having it sitting on the mantle when we got there after work. Our first night we moved only our futon mattress and the Victrola record player and had pizza with milk while we leaned against the wall and listened to old 78s. There were wood floors inside a monstrous living room with arched doorways and a coved ceiling. In the winter we slept in the front room because the bedrooms, on the north side of the house, were damp and cold and the bedroom carpet smelled like mildew.
Like all the houses in the neighborhood we had a double-sized lot with trees planted the same year the house had been built. We had a plum tree, a hazelnut, a cherry tree, a big old apple tree with three different kinds of apple grafted on, including pink lady apples and small red cooking apples and hard little green apples.
Behind the house our neighbors had a row of Port Orford cedars, which made for wonderful privacy and a relaxing view from our bedroom window. When it snowed that winter the cedars stood hushed and still, draped with white. When the wind whistled through, straight down from Alaska, the cedars churned their branches and shook and rocked side to side.
The big tree in the front yard was a crimson king maple, so named for the incredible year-round color. When the winter approached it turned from dark crimson to bright orange, like fire. It held onto their leaves as long as it could and then dumped them on the ground in a big blanket, like a strong graceful woman discarding an enormous heavy mink coat after whispered encouragement from a lover who wants her to stand there and be admired, naked and perfect in the half light of dusk.
I loved living in that little house, with its bright windows and breakfast nook and funny little bathroom sink. I loved that yard, with the herb garden and daisy patch and the tulips that came up in the spring, and especially I loved the crimson king.
When we first moved to Oregon we lived in a little old house with little old windows, multiple small sheets of glass set in cedar frames. The windows steamed up when we boiled water in the kitchen. The window glass was so old it had started to droop and ripple like water, and when it rained and the droplets ran down the panes it made the world look like a Monet painting. There was a carved mantle over the fireplace (which we couldn't use because the chimney was cracked).
The day we rented it, S bought an orchid for me and surprised me by having it sitting on the mantle when we got there after work. Our first night we moved only our futon mattress and the Victrola record player and had pizza with milk while we leaned against the wall and listened to old 78s. There were wood floors inside a monstrous living room with arched doorways and a coved ceiling. In the winter we slept in the front room because the bedrooms, on the north side of the house, were damp and cold and the bedroom carpet smelled like mildew.
Like all the houses in the neighborhood we had a double-sized lot with trees planted the same year the house had been built. We had a plum tree, a hazelnut, a cherry tree, a big old apple tree with three different kinds of apple grafted on, including pink lady apples and small red cooking apples and hard little green apples.
Behind the house our neighbors had a row of Port Orford cedars, which made for wonderful privacy and a relaxing view from our bedroom window. When it snowed that winter the cedars stood hushed and still, draped with white. When the wind whistled through, straight down from Alaska, the cedars churned their branches and shook and rocked side to side.
The big tree in the front yard was a crimson king maple, so named for the incredible year-round color. When the winter approached it turned from dark crimson to bright orange, like fire. It held onto their leaves as long as it could and then dumped them on the ground in a big blanket, like a strong graceful woman discarding an enormous heavy mink coat after whispered encouragement from a lover who wants her to stand there and be admired, naked and perfect in the half light of dusk.
I loved living in that little house, with its bright windows and breakfast nook and funny little bathroom sink. I loved that yard, with the herb garden and daisy patch and the tulips that came up in the spring, and especially I loved the crimson king.
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