When I work around the yard in the fall, often times I think over and over of the 1st line of the poem “When the Frost is on the Punkin” written by the Hoosier poet, James Whitcomb Riley.

“When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!”
“When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!”
“When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!”

Translation “when there is frost on the pumpkin and all the corn is gathered and tied together out in the fields”.

It’s like one of those song tunes you can’t get out of your head.

“When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!”

On Sunday, we finally had a killing frost. It was a hoarfrost, matter of fact. There were little hairy ice crystals all over the plants and lawn, as you can see from the picture above.

So the season is finished.

Now I have nothing left to do but clean up the garden, empty the containers, plant bulbs, make sure the snow blower works, and get everything stowed away until next spring. At the same time, I’ll still be cutting the grass at least once a week until Thanksgiving. Thankfully, I don’t have too many large trees, yet, so leaf raking won’t be a big deal for me.

After emptying the compost bins on Saturday, I managed to fill one three quarters full again with more plant refuse. As you can see below, at least the vegetable garden is cleaned up. Now on to the flower beds…

“When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!”

“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 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’ sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawsack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below — the clover overhead! —

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 Angles 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!