I scraped frost off the windshield yesterday for the first time this season. I had to have the truck in the shop bright and early and the sun was just peeking over the horizon when I headed into town…sipping my coffee and watching for late browsing deer. Everywhere you turn these days you catch the bright orange flash of pumpkins tucked here and there. Porches, storefronts, and garden centers are ablaze like a sunset and it reminds me my favorite color is “October”!

The frost and the pumpkins reminded me of this poem so I thought I would share this little piece of autumnal Americana with you for hump day. It seems divinely appropriate for my newfound farm life.

Have a beautiful day!

When the Frost is on the Punkin by James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock, 
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock, 
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens, 
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; 
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best, 
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, 
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere 
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here— 
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, 
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees; 
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze 
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days 
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, 
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; 
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still 
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; 
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; 
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!— 
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock, 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps 
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; 
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! 
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be 
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me— 
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock— 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock! 

❤️

“The breath of God produces ice, and the broad waters become frozen.”

‭‭Job‬ ‭37:10‬ ‭NIV‬‬