The mercury continues to rise stubbornly, unseasonably and unreasonably, to the seventy-degree mark. It has been a blessing for us personally, as the construction crew races to beat the winter weather and get the house closed in, but we recognize that, in collective terms, this is not a development to celebrate. It’s a direct result of climate change, and it is disruptive to our entire world here.
In recent days, a small flock of a half-dozen or more robins has arrived, entirely out of season, and the beautiful orangebirds show every sign of intending to stay. We welcome them, of course, but when real winter finally comes, it will be difficult for these beautiful songbirds to thrive here.
Even now, despite the warmth, the trees are steadily shedding their autumn robes, preparing for winter’s long sleep. Ours here on this bit of land are usually the last in the area to turn, and the last to lose all of their leaves: They are relatively protected, and are well-nurtured all year long, and so their foliage tends to last well beyond those of the trees up and down the road and across the highway. At the moment, only two of our aspens are mostly bare; some are still more green than gold. Elsewhere in view, however, the trees are turning skeletal at a rapid rate, and gold and brown aspen and cottonwood leaves now blanket the verge across the road.
There are, however, plenty of still-green trees: the fir, the spruce, the cedar . . . and, of course, the piñon.
All are important to our small world here. The fir and spruce have their own historical uses; the cedar is used as medicine, for cleansing and purification, for prayer. But the piñon holds a special place in the lifeways of this area and its people.
The name, of course, is simply the Spanish word for “pine.” But here, as with so many names and words brought by the first colonizers, it has been both absorbed by the indigenous language and assimilated into that of much of the subsequent colonizing population. The original word for it here is, of course, something much different, and its uses far predate European contact. Here, it is used for shelter, warmth, construction, art, and even food. Yes, food: Piñon is also the local word applied to the nuts the trees produce — i.e., ordinary pine nuts. He, we roast them and eat them as a snack, but they hold the status both of healthy, filling nutrition and of a delicacy. A friend just delivered some bags of them to Wings this morning, and the air here will soon be filled with their slightly woodsy, slightly spicy, utterly tantalizing scent. I use roasted piñon in cooking, including adding them to pancakes, breads, and other baked goods.
But piñon is used for many other purposes, as well: The trunks of the trees are cut and used as latillas (the long slat-like poles that form the indigenous style of fencing and arbor construction here); stripped of bark with a drawknife, they are used for the traditional ladders and for both exterior and interior construction, including vigas (beams). Smaller branches and limbs may be used in weaponry — the making of bows and arrows, spears, and the handles of axes and tomahawks and hammers — and in the creation of art and ceremonial items, including drums, beaters, some rattle handles, and staffs.
And the outside world here knows piñon well, even if it often doesn’t realize it.
From October to May, the first sensory experience that greets one upon stepping outside into the world is the rich and spicy scent of piñon smoke. It’s a smell that I’ve always associated with autumn and winter, with harvest holidays and solstice ones, too. And its use is so ubiquitous that on most mornings during the colder months, no matter how cloudless the sky, an inversion layer of smoke blankets the town, sitting as does squarely in the valley slightly below us.
The piñon serves another purpose, too: In the spring, the magpies build their large, complex nests deep within its dense system of branches. At this time of year, when their children have all grown to adulthood, they have no more need for such spaces. But as the other trees grow bare, and even the evergreens thin a bit, allowing more light and cold to filter through, the smaller birds are in need of shelter. Every year, the magpies build at least one nest in the center of the piñon tree outside the window — and every year, when the cold comes, the little birds take up occupancy in its vacant walls. It serves as a joint home for juncos, finches, sparrows, occasionally chickadees — the small spirits who need its extra protection through the month of deep cold.
Most of our world here is gold, amber, rusty brown. Before long, even the brown will begin to give way to a veil of gray and then white. What green remains will be of the evergreen variety, and it will be a reminder that, cold and snow notwithstanding, our world still provides for our survival.
~ Aji
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