No, there hasn't been an outbreak of clumsy aliens in my garden. The start of the annual leaf drop is accompanied by the fall of the magnolia tree's velvety seed pods. These plump olive-green pods, much like furry pine cones studded with bright red seeds, ripen in the fall at about the same time as the leaves begin assuming their fall hues. The pods lie scattered beneath the tree with the first of the maple leaves and dried magnolia leaves, calling for considerable raking until the last one finally plops to the ground.

While the magnolia pursues its usual messy drive to reproduce and we thwart its efforts, other ornamentals are ripening bright berries to deck their fall foliage. The tomatoes are still the gaudiest plants in the garden, ripening a heavy load of fruit while still setting more. I decided that they didn't need more compost, so Baby's and Rapunzel's latest loads went onto other areas of the garden.

I emptied Rapunzel this morning and used the compost to top dress the rose bushes, hoping that we still have enough time before a serious frost to coax a few more blooms from them without feeding them so much that they will be too eager to keep growing for their own good. They've been responding so well to feedings of tumbler juice that it seemed worth the try.

We had a visit from a power company tree trimming crew this week, trimming the trees near their power lines in an effort to protect their newly repaired power system. They neatly topped the shrubs under the lines and cut away a good part of a tree overhanging the line to the house. The yard now has a generous dappling of afternoon sun in areas previously shaded, and the tomatoes are getting quite a bit more sun as well.

The cats didn't appreciate their efforts to reduce the forest one bit, especially when they started up their chippers to shred the branches. The cats hid in the bedrooms until the noise was finally over, then came out and wailed for treats until they were finally placated with as much of their favorite cat foods as they could mooch. That they made as much racket as the chippers escaped them, amazingly enough.

Today there is only the quiet patter of some rain outside. The business-like rains of summer spurring greater growth has turned to the misty, grayed rains of autumn, washing the fading greens from the leaves to reveal the reds, golds, and tans of the matured leaves beginning to scatter across the lawn. I spent most of the morning topping off the tumblers with more scraps and paper while the laundry washed and a batch of lemon cookies baked. I've been finishing the last of the produce from Steve's last shopping trip, readying for the next onslaught.

He took his usual 40-pounds-of-potatoes revenge for the fabric.com order. My mornings have started occasionally with the succulent squish of grating potatoes, followed by the fragrant sizzle of the potato pancakes in the Dutch oven. I have to use enough oil to practically deep-fry them to match the crunch of his favorite fast food hash brown, but they are pretty tasty hot from the grease. I do alternate with healthier dishes, but potato pancakes are a definite favorite when well-seasoned with excessive-fabric indignation.

The crafting is going well. I've been stitching on that star quilt, alternating with knitting a size 8 sweater. Changing from one technique to another helps to keep my fingers from getting too sore, a problem ever more noticeable as I mature. Oh my, I hate to even say it. It makes me feel like a leaf about to drop off my branch, and a dull tan leaf at that. Still, I can't overlook it anymore as I put on my reading glasses to see what I'm doing and decide what craft to do depending on which finger hurts the most at the moment.

It seems to be one of the indignities of maturing, that one must be careful not to accumulate too much (except for cash!) to leave behind when one does finally make the transition to the next stage of eternal life. The pharmacist still fills my prescriptions freely enough, but Mom has her pills rationed with stingy precision. Her insurance company is loathe to pay for pills that might not be needed, an unnerving if understandable cost control measure. My family seems intent on putting the brakes on my crafting stash instead.

I suppose if I had chosen a hobby like stamp collecting as they did, there might be more tolerance for my splurges. Stamps are pretty, but they have to be so carefully tucked away in a book so they are preserved for the future. Some quilts and other needlecrafts are also stored with equal care for one's descendants, but most are made to be used and loved even as they mature along with their owner. However, a quilt that is only a splendid idea and a fabric stash is not a tangible asset to the uninitiated, even though the thought of an upcoming delight does brighten the humdrum rhythms of most housework. I can see how it kept the pioneer women sane in their grinding but necessary work to survive, a bright spot of color and creativity blooming like a rose among the thorns of their lives.

So, I sneak over to fabric.com to drool over the latest offerings, then get back to the quilt or knitting in progress as the housework and gardening permits. The flannel quilt is on hold for the moment as I have been reminded pointedly that I now have two quilts still not finished. I might be able to get some fabric for new clothes when the gardening is finished for the year, but a paper avalanche in our den recycling corner last night was a reminder that Baby and Rapunzel are hungrily devouring their new loads and need a steady supply of new paper shreds for about a week before they slow down once again. If only I could convince the cats to sharpen their claws on the paper pile like a pair of furry paper shredders, I would have it made. Unfortunately, that is often the cause of a paper avalanche when they attack from the side instead of from the top, which dampens their curiosity about trying it again.