Back in 1950, Andrew Wyeth painted "November First," depicting a farm field near his studio in Pennsylvania. Yet even now, the scene could have been painted of any cornfield in the Great Lakes region after the crop has been harvested and the brilliant colors of autumn have faded to the somber tones of early winter.
Wyeth once said, “I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape, the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter.”
His watercolor, in muted buffs and grays, shows a barren field in which you can almost hear the winds of November rattling the tattered remnants of corn stalks.
But when you think about it, fall has been a preparation for winter. In September, deciduous trees sent their carbohydrates down into their roots and trunks. In their twigs, they produced substances that act like antifreeze to protect living cells. To conserve water and avoid wind damage, they dropped their leaves.
Evergreens kept their needles, which are tough and waxy, and evolved to endure cold, dry air. And though the above-ground parts of most native grasses and perennials appear lifeless, their roots are very much alive, waiting for spring.
Corn, in contrast, does not survive the winter. Not the leaves. Not the stalks. Not even the roots. The only hope for species survival lies in the kernels — the seeds — each holding the promise of new growth.
So, November is the time for final preparations for winter, yet in nature, those preparations are not about endings. They are quiet promises that life will go on.
