I always look forward to early summer when my raspberries and blueberries ripen and I can go outside, pick and drop them atop a fresh bowl of cereal before returning to the kitchen, pouring in milk and mixing it up with a tablespoon. Although the berries have gone by, I can now buy local peaches, a tasty harbinger of the fall bird-hunting season. I prefer the flavorful, tart yellows but don’t turn my up nose to the delicate whites. I cut them up small to mix with my cereal, hot or cold, depending on my mood.

These days, I notice myriad autumnal signs, such as the sound of random hickory nuts falling to the forest floor with a rumble, several knocks and a thud, the smooth, round green husks intact. And how about the rivers and streams? After a couple of melancholy months, the recent rain has brought them back to life, and they’re now swollen with vitality and vigor. Isn’t it interesting how dark, threatening skies can bring such happiness to a stream? Nature’s way. I often compare brooks and rivers to human passions, the ebbs and flows, and get a daily dose of that analogy with the centerline of a gravel-bed stream serving as my property’s northern boundary.

This fall should be fun when the gunshots echo from the upland meadows. It’s going to be the year when I figure out if Buddy, 2, is ever going to be a productive gun dog. He came to me a bit “confused” through no fault of his own, bringing with him a retrieving issue created by a handler’s heavy-handed error. I have now given him better than a year without any pressure, allowing him to freewheel and enjoy our daily romps through diverse coverts with me, including many tagalong hunts last season. This year, I’ll exert a little pressure and see how he reacts. If he doesn’t work out, so be it. I’ll live with mediocrity. But I suspect he’ll be fine. He displays all the tools, especially speed, nose and agility, and he’s always been easy to handle.

Lily, 8, is my finished gun dog, a little north of her prime following emergency April surgery. I figure she still has a couple of good years left. And with little Chubby, 4 months old, waiting in the wings, I’m all set for years. Chubby shows potential, pretty much a self-starter who’ll need a little guidance for retrieving and hand signals. Other than that, I’ve already seen enough to know the little guy’s going to be an relentless flusher. He’s been stalking butterflies and flying grasshoppers for a month, clearly has what it takes, and will soon learn to love the shotgun’s roar. I have no doubts that little Chubby’s going to be a good one, even if the unflattering name I gave him before I decided to keep him is an insult. I guess when I finally get around to sending in his AKC registration papers, I’ll have to call him Old Tavern Farm’s Ethan Chubb, maybe even Nathan, with that distinguished old-English ring. That’ll be as good a cover as any for an otherwise unsuitable name.

The great weather we’ve enjoyed this week has got me thinking about cordwood again. I’ve been sitting on two or three cords of seasoned red oak that I arranged Wednesday to have delivered. When I say seasoned, I mean good and seasoned, three or four years stacked outside and covered on top. My only fear is that it’s too dry. I have never picked up split 18-inch pieces of oak so light. Not punky. Bone dry and hard. I just hope it doesn’t burn too fast.

I still intend to buy my five or six cords of black locust from political soul mate Blue Sky. I’m addicted to the stuff. But this primo oak should be fun, too. I’ll pick and choose daily for just the right mix, may even use the oak for my fireplaces, especially the one in the taproom that serves as my favorite winter reading station, pole lamp with a hanging shade standing temporarily next to a flame-stitch wing chair and ottoman in front of the fireplace. Sometimes the flames, the heat and the music — typically bluegrass, maybe Dylan, Garcia, Norman Blake, Tim O’Brien, Steve Earle or Jorma Koukonen — send me off into another realm. When that happens, not infrequently, I just place the book down on my lap and let my mind wander off to forbidden places, sometimes rising for a quick trip to the computer to capture a thought or riff. It may sound like a tough life in the cold of winter, but somebody’s got to do it. Why not me?

Speaking of reading, I’ve been on an Ethan Allen kick recently and just discovered there’s a new biography out on the Vermont rabble-rouser. I can’t wait for Willard Sterne Randall’s “Ethan Allen: His Life and Times” to arrive in the mail. I was led to Allen by recent interest in the many French & Indian wars (1675-1763) that visited the Connecticut Valley, necessitating the construction of local forts like Pelham, Shirley, Dummer and No. 4. Irascible Ethan Allen was actually introduced to Vermont as young Litchfield, Conn., soldier during the final French & Indians War (1754-63). I have had an interest in the man for many years because I share many genealogical links and political philosophies with him. Some distant relatives would run away from the infamous rebel known as a brawler and blasphemer. Not me. I worship my fiery genes and am proud to have cousins like Allen, who had the audacity to call politicians and clergy of his day rascals and thieves. But enough of that. On to the next subject, one still inspired by thoughts of autumn.

I had planned to buy a new 16-gauge side-by side shotgun this year, preferably a classic, pre-WWII, European double with a straight English stock. But then came unexpected financial burdens — a funeral, a big veterinary bill and a couple of expensive car repairs to name a few — thus my vow to hold off till next year. Why cut myself thin for a gun I don’t need? I have enough shotguns to get by, and can easily squeeze out another year with my old, battered Jean Breuil, of that classic aforementioned style. Hey, even my 12-gauge Citori over-and-under would work in a pinch, although I prefer side-by-sides. But mark my words: there’s a fancy European double with a flame walnut stock that has my name on it. Call it my retirement gun, something made by an artisan, not cheap factory help. It has been said that fine double-barrels, tweed jackets and jugs of after-the-hunt Rare Breed can put a man in great places with excellent company.

Enough!

I better stop meandering. That’s about all I’ve got for this week. Sometimes I get to the bottom of a piece like this and wonder how I got here. What made me think of this or that or the other thing? But why even entertain such insignificant queries? The lawn is waiting. I’d like to put it behind me before the weekend. Then I can just sit back and wait for the sound of that dump truck backing up to my woodshed with a load of dry oak that’s seasoned gray; either that or mail lady Rose stopping out front to squish Ethan Allen into my mailbox.
I do hope Ethan arrives first. That way, maybe I can plow through all 615 pages before the wood is dumped. Yeah, I know it’s work. I can’t say I dread it.