Autumn comes late in the desert southwest and is less dramatic than in many places. During the years we lived in southern Utah I eagerly looked forward to the end of October, cooler weather, and the season for harvesting our pomegranates. Below are two memories from my journal of this time of year:
October 27, 2001. At last we are enjoying fall weather, one beautiful day after another. Our windows are open wide to invite in the sound of birds enjoying our pomegranate crop in the bushes just outside. We really should finish harvesting the fruit, but the birdsong is equal in enjoyment to the sweet morsels inside of the pomegranate fruit. We have shared our bounty with neighbors and friends by armful and bagful as well as with the birds. Both are equally sweet.
October 29, 2002. There is a small white house down the lane past the post office. With fields on both sides of it and the Santa Clara river just beyond, the house looks like it grew there. Mature trees and bushes surround the house to the point of partially hiding it. Today I noticed smoke curling from it’s chimney and thought it was a sure sign of the changing season. Then I noticed the old woman who lives there. Wearing a denim jacket, she was busily pulling pomegranates from her tall, full bushes and dropping them into a nearby five-gallon bucket. She was accompanied by her large orange tabby cat, who rubbed and stretched along the bottom branches of the pomegranate bushes while keeping a close eye on her mistress.