The ash tree in the front yard dropped all her leaves last week, and they joined the baby mulberries, chokecherries and buckthorn already stacked in the burn pile, along with daylily stems and other dead bits of summer's glory. Sunday afternoon, the temperature was perfect, the wind was blowing away from the lake, so we had a small burn, clearing the fire pit for the tons of oak leaves to be raked and burned this fall.
In Sunday's burn pile were thousands of acorns. I've never seen so many acorns drop in a season. Several weeks ago, when they started falling from the trees, I pictured squirrels in an Olympic tossing contest, so loud and frequent the explosive sound of acorn on roof. The sound and feel of a carpet of acorns is everywhere I walk, or scooter, or drive. Like my friend Julie, I wish I were earth-wise enough to read this sign.
Yesterday, the sometimes-neighbors from Chicago were here. The acorns their kids had picked up when they were here last were still in the bowl they had put them in -- one of those plastic bowls topped with something that looks like a shower cap. The conditions had been just right, apparently, for the acorns to germinate. Chicago Mom told me about the accidental science project, which she was prepared to throw away, and weird-one that I am, I said "I'll take them!"
I'm imagining a bonsai oak grove to plant and tend, squirrels well-fed this winter, and thousands of baby oaks coming up everywhere in the spring.
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