Hi, Jerry. We aren't offended by the absurdly early displays because we're usually too busy on the farm to get into town to see them.

This time of year has a certain urgency about it; as strong as the urge for birds to head south, but less picturesque. We just keep on clearing crops, cleaning up weeds, fastening plastic over windows, clearing out anything in the way of keeping warm with the wood and coal stoves.

It's time to set the potted apple trees and the sacks of potatoes in the cellar, the perennials from the stand into a bed of compost or onto the ground in the greenhouse. It's time to freeze, dry, and preserve produce or tuck it into the cellar until I have time to deal with it. Time to haul wood and bag up white pine cones for kindling, and to get those boxes of paperwork sorted and filed or recycled or composted.

It's time to clear out clothing that we don't need, and check the recycling shed in the village for a flannel shirt or pair of mittens to replace worn things that have become rags or fire starters. Coats we haven't worn for a couple of years will become a warm hug for someone else, and Mr. Reny will sell us some warm socks and long johns.

But soon, very soon, it will be time to learn and sing old songs and new, time to play the guitars, the dulcimers, the fiddle and whistle. It will be time to open the watercolors and paint scenes of the summer's garden wealth. Time to write and rewrite the songs and poems that linger in rough form in my notes. The mittens will be knitted and the quilts will be pieced. The house will be filled with the scents of fresh bread and jams and stew.

And this year, if we succeed in the clearing and cleaning and the seeking of order, we will have guests come to visit us on sparkling bright days and in the deep dark of evening. An empty nursery will be transformed into a welcoming guest room. Voices will ring in the front hall, and our house will have its blessing. Our lovelight will shine.

Winter is coming. Rejoice!