I spent yesterday morning in the garden: cleaning out the last of the delicate crops--peppers, eggplant, okra. We haven't had a frost yet, but they'd clearly stopped growing, so goodbye. I pulled carrots and dismantled the insect nets, and did a thorough weeding of the vegetable beds. I planted, then mulched the garlic. I collected the outside chairs, drained the hoses, stowed the table, the fire grate, and the cold frame. Today T and I will finagle the chairs and hoses through the cellar hatch for storage, carry the snow shovels out to the shed, and then that stage of fall cleanup will be done.

Today I'll work on pruning perennials, bagging sticks, and, I hope, splitting my hostas so I can fill some blank spaces in the backyard beds. I might start raking leaves into the gardens, though there are many more leaves to fall.

Baron's pink dahlias still bloom bravely. The orange nasturtiums and white zinnias are hanging on. The blueberry bushes and the Japanese maple are brilliant crimson. Despite the drought the yard glows red and gold and green. Kale, chard, and lettuce flutter in the vegetable garden. The sturdy herbs are thriving; even the basil, though wan, is hanging onto life.

In the cellar, the firewood is stacked. Boxes and buckets are filled with kindling. The furnace is clean. The tank is full. There is a basket of potatoes and onions. Drying shirts and pants tremble on the clotheslines. Upstairs in the freezer are bags of wild mushrooms, green beans, kale, corn, peppers; boxes of tomato sauce, peaches, chicken stock. In the refrigerator: peppers, carrots, cabbage, celery, beets--some of it mine, all of it local.

I feel rich. It's not like I've forgotten that obscene car-repair bill and the rest of our endless suck of expenses. But the homestead snugness of late autumn is so reassuring. We have food. We have heat. Let the storms arise.