Squashed

As you drive East, the blue Lake Michigan waters shimmering in the distance, there’s a charming sight on the packed dirt road back to the cabin. A fairly nondescript plot of land sits on the south side of the road, hemmed in on three sides by tall trees. There’s something about the trees on Beaver Island that I have yet to put my finger on. They’re certainly not old growth, my dad thinks they might be second or even third generation growth, but they are tall. The woods are full and soft from the thick layer of duff covered immediately by the sea of ferns and then higher up by the branches dancing in breezes enjoyed only by birds and leaves. Under the branches currently garbed in colorful but tattered splendor, birds dart in the shadows, sometimes disappearing down beneath the brown ferns. If you stand quietly, you’ll hear them all calling. The mysterious life under the ferns is being exposed this month by their withering. I wonder if the mice and smaller creatures ever feel deceived by this show of fragility by the very things that gave them thick cover all summer.



These beautiful woods cover most of the island and of course surround the piece of land along the road home. A John Deere tractor sits by the driveway for $200. There’s the house set in back of the lot. The building up closer to the road is adorned with horseshoes and various clutter of life. There’s a garden in back that must provide the furnishings for the rickety table at the side of the road. Rain, hail, or shine, acorn and butternut squash have been placed out every day we’ve driven by. A clear plastic container with its top cut off serves as the donation box, a clunky old piece of hardware weighting it down from the winds coming straight off Lake Michigan.

My mom and I have been buying the squash and savoring them. They are big, colorful, and full of fall flavor. They still have some dirt on them, and I can’t get enough of just feeling their pleasant shapes and smooth skins in my hands. I realize how much I’ve missed them and already mourn their passing days. Each year I conveniently forget how much I really love squash until it’s sitting there on the plate in front of me. That sounds admittedly strange coming from an American who is rapidly approaching Thanksgiving in the Midwest.

As I reheated some of the fresh squash the other night for a midnight snack, I watched the bowl spin around in the microwave. I couldn’t help feeling a little sad, like the process of microwaving took some of the essence of the squash away. Directing high concentrations of anything (especially types of energy) towards another thing is vaguely disconcerting to me.

No, I’m not going to start eating raw foods or even stop using the microwave, it’s just that I do wonder at the marvel of modern eating. And there’s something about fall that stirs longings. Sometimes it’s for people, sometimes it’s for the past or future, and sometimes, well, sometimes it’s just for squash.