
                         Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: MONDAY, October 4, 1993                   TAG: 9401150005
SECTION: EDITORIAL                    PAGE: A7   EDITION: METRO 
SOURCE: Monty S. Leitch
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

AS THE SEASON CHANGES

TODAY AS I write (almost a week before you'll read), forecasters have posted the season's first frost warning. Around here, the trees are looking a little skimpy; but, even though clearly it won't be long now, so far only the poison ivy and dogwoods have reddened.

I'm hoping this means I've mowed the yard for the last time this year.

I have two bird feeders out by the barn at which I feed mostly squirrels. Lately, I've been making more of an effort to keep the feeders filled, since I've read that birds come to rely on their artificial food supply and will starve over the winter if their seed isn't provided.

I'm only moderately worried about the squirrels. The floor of the woods is littered with acorns and hickory nuts; enough even, I should think, for the several thousand busy, greedy rodents who seem to live here.

But a few birds visit me, too: towhees, chickadees, cardinals, sparrows. The occasionally screaming blue jay. I feel like I ought to continue taking care of them, now that I've started.

Responsibility slips up on you. Like age. One day you've got everything to look forward to, the world is your oyster, and the next you've settled into a routine that's so much like the life you swore you'd never live it makes your skin crawl. One day you're watching indigo buntings with the binoculars, the next you're in thrall to squirrels.

I didn't undertake the maintenace of bird feeders because I thought the birds needed me, but because I wanted to watch the birds. Now, look what's happened.

Sept. 26 marked Johnny Appleseed's birthday. This year he'd have been 219 years old. All around the barn, and scattered throughout the old fields and woods here, apple trees have been dropping fruit by the bushel this year.

Of course, these aren't apple trees planted by John Chapman. A few are left over from a little orchard, but most are volunteers, the result of some randomly dropped core or seed.

Squirrels don't eat apples (although red squirrels do enjoy the occasional mushroom), so I'm guessing our apple trees have been "planted" by deer. If I were to begin putting out cracked corn and salt blocks for the deer, would I soon be entangled in their welfare, too? I have a friend who's been feeding cat food to his 'possums for so long that whole generations of 'possums have lived and died on his place without knowing the taste of mouse.

On the surface, Johnny Appleseed lived a life of absolute freedom, wandering the earth without possessions, without family., A vagrant, a bum, homeless by choice, lacking any visible means of support, shunning responsibility.

But (and you know where this is leading), look at the legacy. Draw your own conclusions; you know the phrases you need - the greater good, a higher calling, invisible treasures laid up in heaven, hope.

This chill in the air, this slowing down, is pleasant. All day long, I listen to the squirrels chittering and fussing around the feeder. I'd miss them if they weren't there. So now: Who's taking care of whom?

\ Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times & World-News columnist.

by CNB