Reflections on the Fifth Week of Fall - Autumn Red

Burning Bush 

Neighbors agreed with me.

Kathy, owner of a cat, dog, rabbit, duck, mini-donkey, alpaca, and cow menagerie, grabbed my elbow at the township meeting. “What’re those red bushes in front of your house? They’re gorgeous.”

Sandy, our tax collector who lopes down the road like she’s on a mission, stopped mid road and stretched her arms wide. “Your burning bushes are amazing this year. I see them from way down by Hutch’s. She points a finger down the road. “As soon as I round that curve.”

John, the hay farmer I talked into running for Township Supervisor, stepped inside our log house and adjusted the visor of his baseball cap. “People have been telling me how spectacular your burning bushes are.” He bobbed his head. “They were right.”

Our three burning bushes, euonymus alati, dazzled brighter this year than in the past. I’d crouched and circled to photograph them numerous times. And each time I visualized them as a colorful backdrop for fall flowers. After three hard frosts, all our flowers had died. Maybe I could buy some potted mums.

Between loads of laundry Friday afternoon, I dragged Spence on a mum hunt despite his having just returned from two hours of shopping in Meadville. He hadn’t even unloaded the truck when we took off.

I steered the Subaru under clouds threatening rain and past tawny corn fields to the Amish nursery on Lake Road. Pumpkins, in shades from orange to white and in sizes from bushel basket to tennis ball, spread across the yard. No mums. Sighing, I pulled onto the muddy drive by the greenhouse to turn around.

“Don’t worry. There may be some in the greenhouse.” Spence jumped out of the car and strode away.

Hope rising, I hustled after him.

Spence slid the greenhouse door open. “Nothing here. But I hear someone by the house.” He closed the door. “I’ll go ask.”

I trudged to the car and watched a marmalade-orange kitten lap water from a puddle.

Spence met the Amish farmer halfway to the house. They chatted longer than a no would take. Maybe the farmer had mums or knew where to find them.

Spence returned and slid into the passenger seat. “He said it was the best year ever for mums. He sold out three weeks ago.”

“Does he know where to get some?”

Spence grinned. “He didn’t. He said to come three weeks earlier next year.”

Backing onto the hard road, I searched my mind for places I’d seen mums last year. “Did you see any at Giant Eagle or Home Depot in Meadville?”

He shook his head.

“Let’s try the grocery store and flower shop in Cochranton.”

“Didn’t that flower shop close?”

Burning Bush 

The flower shop had closed. No sign, leaf, or petal remained in the empty storefront. I circled and headed to Market Place. Scarecrows, pumpkins, and corn stalks decorated the front of the grocery store. No mums. Discouraged, I kept driving.

Spence patted my knee. “We can try Kepners.”

This fall, when I’d sped past the farmer’s market south of Wells Wood, I gazed at their fields dotted with myriads of pumpkins. I hadn’t checked the front of the store. Maybe. Hope rose from my toes to my belly. No sense in getting too excited.

I pulled into Kepner’s parking lot. No mums out front. In case they’d taken them inside because of the frosts, I got out and walked into the small store.

Spence followed.

No mums.

“May I help you?” A woman, with her hair in a white bun cover and who wore a winter jacket over a long dress, smiled congenially.

“I’m looking for mums.”

The woman’s smile saddened. “We sold out two weeks ago. It was the best year ever for mums. We started selling them early—before Labor Day.”

Before Labor Day? People bought mums in summer? Stopping hope from dropping to my toes again, I asked about the Amish store a couple of miles away. “Would Windy Knoll have mums?

Her smile brightened. “They might.”

Spence put his hand on my shoulder—his signal not to get overexcited. “They didn’t have any out front.”

Her smile vanished. “Then they don’t. They would put the mums out.”

After thanking the woman, I trudged to the car.

Spence plopped onto the passenger seat. “You’re too late. You’ll have to look earlier next year.”

While I drove home, Spence pointed out mums in yards. “There’s a yellow mum . . . another yellow one . . . a red one . . .”

Concentrating on the road, I missed all except the bushel basket sized mums in front of Gingersnap Junction, an artsy antique store. Frost had killed their wide crown of flowers. I didn’t want those.

After our forty mile hunt, I pulled into the garage. Mumless.

“You don’t need mums.” Spence strode to the middle of the road, held an imaginary camera to his eyes, and pressed an invisible shutter button. “The bushes are stunning without mums.”

I pulled my camera out of its case, that I’d lugged hoping a mum display would make a great photo, and stepped to position my feet in front of his. Looking through the viewfinder, I could feel hope rising above my knees. The burning bushes had never looked lovelier.

From different angles and distances, I took thirty-seven photographs. Each one made me wish for mums.

Letting the camera hang from my neck, I headed along the driveway toward the house. Gravel crunched under my feet.

Spence put his arm around my shoulders. “I’m trying everything to make you happy. We can get mums next year.”

Inside the house, while Spence’s tractor rumbled outside, I didn’t want to wait until next year.

Maybe I could find a store in Seneca since I’d made plans to attend the Oil Valley Quilt Guild’s show Saturday then eat dinner with my son Charlie. I searched the internet. No flower stores in Seneca. But I would pass the five star Anderson’s Greenhouse in Franklin on the way. I dialed their phone number. “Do you have mums?”10-25-19 Burning Bush 1

A female voice on the other end of the line answered. “Yes. We’ve got mums for ten dollars, twenty dollars, and, and . . . ”

I waited for the and . . .

“We have mums.”

Mums on Maple Stump

Whatever the and . . . , I wanted mums. “I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon.”

On rainy, cloudy Saturday, I pulled into Anderson’s parking lot. MUMS! On three tables and the blacktop sat pots bursting with blossoms. Rust, orange, yellow, purple, and white mums looked fresh and bountiful. A huge basket, with a third section in orange mums, a third yellow, and a third rust, had a forty-two dollar label—the woman’s “and . . . ” price. Though I admired the grandiose display, I selected three six-inch pots of yellow mums.

Michael, the middle-aged man who wore much cleaner garden clothes than Spence, carried the pots to my car, stooped, and nestled the mums on the floor behind the driver and passenger seats. “That’ll be nine dollars. Three dollars each.”

Not too late. Just right for pretty mums at a bargain price.

Driving off to the rhythmic swishing of windshield wipers, I inhaled the spicy fragrance of mums. Success!

This morning, while Spence napped on the sofa after writing rhino!UP, a newsletter for renters, I carried two pots of mums in one arm and one in the other—like Michael had—from the porch where they’d spent the night to the burning bushes out front. I spaced the pots under the bushes, stepped back to view the scene, then shifted the pots. The yellow color blended with the red burning bush leaves like I’d hoped, but the size of the bushes dwarfed the flowers. Ten pots would have made a better picture. When I liked the spacing, I focused the camera.

Wind toppled the smallest pot. I set it upright.

Wind blew. The pot tipped. I reset the pot—four more times.

After photographing the first arrangement, I moved the pots and took pictures from different angles.

Filled with hope from toes to windblown hair, I giant stepped back inside to the computer and downloaded twenty-one pictures. The flash had reflected off the top of the yellow mums making each flower glow like the sun. Sheesh. The pictures of the burning bush looked better without glowing flowers.

When I clomped down the metal stairs, Spence blinked his eyes.

“After all that, the pictures didn’t come out.” I explained the glare from the flash under the overcast sky.

“Did you try without a flash?”

Camera dangling around my neck, I trudged outside, lugged the mums back to the burning bush, and turned off the flash. Click, click, click. I pressed the shutter release. The yellow mums washed out in those photos too.

But Spence, always trying to make me happy, had followed me outside. He lifted the smallest mum plant to his head and spread his arms wide. I took pictures—before and after the pot toppled off his head. Though I hadn’t caught my envisioned photo, I’d been right about the burning bush. It made a colorful background for falling flowers.

Spence and the Mums