Yesterday I piled firewood, moving it from one side of the house to the porch where I can get to it easily. I moved the picnic table into the garage, replaced the screen insert in the front door with the glass insert, closed the storm windows inside, drained the garden hose and stored it, put a cover on the outdoor faucet, pulled up the tomato plants, put the porch swing away, put the gladiolus bulbs in a paper bag in the cellar (they'd been drying for a week). I'm almost ready for winter. I brought the houseplants in a few weeks ago. Around that time I made pesto with the remaining basil--it's in the freezer, ready for February suppers to remind me of summer.
Tomorrow I'll change the gaskets in the wood stove. If I have time, I'll weed the back garden, in hopes of having it be in better shape next spring.
What does this have to do with storytelling? As I piled wood into the wheelbarrow, I thought of the Aesop's fable, The ant and the grasshopper. I always thought I was the grasshopper, fiddling away all summer, playing, playing, playing. Now I realize I'm also the ant, making sure I'm going to be comfortable in the cold months.
