Diary of My Country Life-October 7th, 2025

The original source of this blog: https://www.lotusandmichael.com/blogs/diary-of-my-country-life

10/07/2025 Tuesday 61-80F Cloudy

Mountain and ocean, I love both. To me, ocean is for summer, while mountains are for autumn. Why do I say so? In autumn, the sky feels higher, the air is crispy, the foliage is changing the colors, and the mountain spring water gets clearer. Trees, rocks, and spring water—these three factors are the core of a mountain; lacking any one of them, a mountain won’t be complete.

Last week my husband and I spent some days in the mountains. Our cottage was located at lakeside, where we could row a boat. Since it’s in the mountains, the trees had already changed their colors, much sooner than the ones in the cities. Sometimes sitting in the chair looking over the lake, winds randomly sent fallen leaves onto the water. Ripples were raised; yellow or red or orange leaves floated leisurely like drifting boats. Being accompanied by this shiny, rippling, vast lake, and the swirling leaves, I could doze off easily. In those short daydreams, everything looked mottled and variegated, like impressionistic art.

The mountains were quiet. Sometimes when the wind was passing, I could hear the sounds of fallen fruit (perhaps wild apples) dropping onto the ground—the sounds were louder in scale but lower in volume than the falling horse chestnuts which I heard at my house; and occasionally a frog jumped into the water, therefore a clear plop could be heard even from indoors, of course with the window or door being open.

The days were quiet enough. But at night it was even quieter. Lying in the bed and leaving the windows open, I could hear wind passing through the grasses and the trees. Crickets forever were playing their several-toned serenade, day and night; they never felt tired, and I never felt bored by listening to them. If I sat on the porch and if I checked my surroundings carefully, I could often find one or two of those brown-jacketed little musicians staying here and there, mute, as if they purposely tried to keep a low profile in front of people. Then once they jumped into either the grasses or the rhododendron bush, a mellow melody would follow soon after.

During the day temperature could climb up to the eighties, but the mornings and evenings in the mountains were chilly, thus a fireplace was almost a must-have to every household. I had never realized that a fireplace could be that useful until I lived in the mountains last fall. So this year, getting smarter, I always started the fireplace first thing in the morning after getting up, and left it on for a while before I went to bed. This wood-logged cottage was small; once the fireplace was lit, right away I could feel the warmth, and the whole house became cozy. I wondered that in winter, when snow heavily piled on the roof and ground, while swirls of smoke were rising from the chimney, such a scene could be very Christmasy, or like the New Year postcards I used to receive when I was a small child.

Autumn hadn’t gone yet, but I already started to dream about the snowscape in the mountains—that was my problem: I always lived in the future.

Anyway, with the remainder of the heat from the fireplace, and covered under a comforter, though the windows in the bedroom were open, I felt cozily warm so I liked to stick out one foot to release some extra heat. The chilly air refreshened my toes; the night was so dark since there was barely any light outdoors; I could sleep through the whole night which was a real luxury to me compared to the past few months.  

One night when I lie in bed and was half asleep, a delicious smell ruthlessly penetrated my nose—it smelt like someone was grilling fish, and it must have been our neighbors. They seemed to like fishing a lot, hence in early morning I could see them fishing on their dock, and in late afternoon they sailed their boat across the lake to somewhere and didn’t return when I went to bed. Now they were grilling fish, fresh caught fish; for some unknown reason, I believed that the fish they caught must be trout. I had ahi tuna pasta for dinner, but how could my store-bought tuna compete with the fresh caught, clean mountain spring water fish!

We didn’t have many neighbors; other than the fisherman couple next door. A teen deer was another neighbor whom I could see often during the day. While I was cooking, through the window, I could see it munching on the leaves; while I was rowing a boat, I could see it standing in the water near the shore having its salad. Perhaps it was used to see me as well, as when I got closer to it, it just lifted its eyelids for a second then continued to manage its own business.

Everyone, every critter, every plant focused only on their own lives; they were so bold and so confident as if they would never get confused. That was why I liked the mountains: Self-sufficient, silent, and robust. Lying in my boat, letting it drift on the water and letting fallen leaves keep passing my eyes, I was thinking hard to compose a poem—it should be a simple, perhaps even naïve one:

In the mountains, by the lake, crouches a little cottage. 

It is built with orange-colored wood logs, and with grey slates.

surrounded by trees, the porch is half covered by a clump of rhododendron. 

Leading to the lakeside by a gravel path, sets a small dock, and tied to it is a small boat. 

If you ask me where my home is--

It’s right under that little flaming maple, on the other side of the bank.