On Fall

December 2, 2018

I have started this blog several times now, and each time have written myself right down a rabbit hole, because fall is complicated, and my thoughts on it run in a variety of directions.  I love it as much as the next person, for there is something about the start of a new season, a “new year”  that inspires.  We find this threshold encouraged by the start of school and in the abundance of advertising (non-holiday) that heralds the new year, promising a new look (clothes), a new feel (home décor), new challenges (classes, deadlines, trips),  and new creative endeavors  (I have an idea for a book…), as well as the comfort of habit (“we always do this in autumn”). 

I admit to buying into it as much for its inspiration as its allure.  But now that I am not working, I’m focused more on the event and less on the stuff.  If anything, I want to pare down.  Since Tom and I have no kids, I want to make the decision making easier for whomever has to reconcile this estate (hopefully in another 35 years) by continuing to clear out.  Five years ago I cleared the garage of Gary’s stuff (as Facebook just reminded me).  But it was so liberating I wished I had done it much sooner – though maybe that just shows how much time it took to be ready.  You have to be ready to take on these tasks, including being ruthless. 

My parents, God love ‘em, were not ruthless.  My late father used to say he had not finished playing with his stuff.  However, his stuff was almost the easy part – the hard part was the family silver, memorabilia, keepsakes, and photos.  As both only children, my parents said no to nothing, accumulating fine furniture, china sets and art glass. Neither my brother nor I have the space for such legacies, but we are loathe to part with that which was precious to our parents.  Our mother impressed upon my brother and me a sense of our genealogy and southern heritage that survives to this day.  She raised us on stories and photographs of long gone relatives; we learned the names of our great- grandparents, aunts and uncles (“there was Robert to doctor, Fred the preacher and Frank the engineer…”).  Even Dad got into the act, and we learned of our Mormon heritage, (including two great great-grandmas married to the same great great-grandpa).  I was surprised and dismayed when I discovered not all families were raised this way.   

So fall is a time to be ruthless – which is an antidote to autumn’s melancholy. 

While summer is pretty straightforward emotionally, fall is not nearly as clean.  It is the waning of life after life has reached its peak (which Keats’ called “mellow fruitfulness”).  It is also a season of great personal loss for me, which in itself is not extraordinary.  I believe most everyone, once they reach a certain age, acquires such seasons.  And, despite the passage of considerable time, the body has a habit of remembering even after the mind has learned to let go and move on.

Fortunately, a widowed friend impressed upon me the importance of making new memories to overlay the old.  Prior to 2014, I made a pretty dismal job of it, despite invitations from friends who kindly shared events and holidays.  But since my remarriage, Tom and I have been making lots of new memories.  This year, October was completely booked, attending concerts and art shows, and taking road trips into the Blue Ridge.  Even our wedding anniversary aptly falls during Thanksgiving Week. I still remember vividly  and very happily our wedding day at the Wren Chapel framed by trees still in full flame, and walking down DOG Street later that day at dusk.    

Speaking of which, I love the trees of autumn almost as much as spring.  Our local trees may have been driven to remain dark, dusty green for all of October, but November has brought them to billowing fire late and lingering long with color.  I marvel at the molten glow, particularly following rain when colors are literally saturated.  Every year I make a point of walking paths that place me directly within and amongst the color, as opposed to just driving by. Nothing beats a walk through a glorious cathedral of trees at this time of year.  Between the gold beneath my feet, the gold raining down, and the gold still arched overhead, I am deeply compelled to be, not just in, but of that natural world where distilled air, nuts and leaves take precedence.   

I also love the chilly mornings and temperate days that occur so infrequently. I love being released from the humidity, pulling out the sturdy boots and wooly clothes, and making hot tea, hot coffee and to-do lists.  I love having lots of coat pockets again, in which to store a phone, glasses and keys.  I love crock-pot cooking and taking the long way home to watch the color unfold. 

The sun sinks, the days shorten, and the shadows collect cold.  I tend to dread the browns of late November, the trees bare of ornamentation, and the rain piercing and inhospitable.  But the heat in the house has been switched on and the radiators mumble comforting noises, protecting us from winter’s harm. I’ve been accused of owning too many lamps.  But a lamp-lit house glows from the inside out, and bids everyone welcome.  And before you know it, that glow becomes Christmas.