Mother country

Today it's 57 degrees and cloudy in my part of the Mountain South. Rain in the forecast, as usual for November.

Most of the leaves have fallen there, the racy reds and yellows at least. The oaks cling to a goodly amount of their brown foliage. The old-timers say that in 6 weeks or so, it'll be evident which of those oaks won't survive the winter. They will still grip their leaves, a drab death throe that lets the world know.

I dreamed of fall leaves last night, prompted by a book passage about the Mayflower Pilgrims' first autumn in New England. In the mother country, cloudy days and rainy nights mute the colors. New England, of course, is noted for its eye-popping fall show.

Perhaps the oaks of Appalachia prefer the British-Isles way. I love those oaks for that reason. They remind me where I got my freckles, my blue eyes, and my surname.