Did you feel it? That chill in the air, dense with the mist of morning fog?
Did you smell it? The scent of burning leaves, cinnamon and vanilla, and pumpkins lit on a Halloween night?
Did you taste it? The heat of spiced cider taking the chill off your innards and the rich warmth of cocoa topped with melting marshmallows?
Did you hear it? The soft crackle of a wood-burning fire, the rustle of a golden path of leaves?
Did you see it? The change of light in the morning, the early dusk with its misty sunsets?
These are the signs that autumn has truly arrived. My mother once told me how she always saw autumn’s arrival in the home of her childhood, Spokane, Wash., in the way the light changed. “Have you ever looked out of a window through a sheer curtain?” she asked me. “You notice how the outside seems softer and muted? That’s what autumn looks like,” she said. “It’s like looking through a sheer curtain.” She told me that autumn also has a feel to it. “There’s almost a spiritual sense to the crispness of the air and a sense of anticipation even before the colors of the leaves start changing,” she said.
As always, my mother is right. I also see it in the bright pumpkins dotting the fields, the bronze corn stalks tied in neat rows, the golden bales and wheels of hay in the pastures, and the burnished hills on which chestnut horses and ruddy cows graze. Autumn is my favorite season. Some say it’s depressing because the days are shorter and darker. But I love that! It reminds me how short life is and the importance of living each day as fully as possible. Others perceive autumn as time of decay and loss, but I see it as a time of potential for new beginnings—sweeping away old, dried leaves to make way for the newness of spring to come.
I don’t do spring cleaning. I muster forces and scour down in the fall, filling the house with the scents of pine, peppermint, cinnamon, and vanilla. I recall how my grandmother, Lula Presta, filled autumn days with baking and candy-making. I can remember her, along with Mom and my aunts, making cookies, fruit cake, divinity, and fudge in early November for gift-giving and family gatherings at Christmas. Grandma’s kitchen was redolent with fragrant spices, as well as the aroma of soups and stews and casseroles being readied for dinner.
Now I have my own family, the Brit and Mini-Brit, my English-born husband and our grandson. Autumn here means soccer (football to the boys) and watching the British teams play live in England. Arsenal is the team we support, and I truly mean that! When I married the Brit, I married the Gunners (the team’s logo is a cannon), and every weekend the neighbors can hear my spouse shooting his mouth off at the television. “Bloody hell! Kick it, man! Quit trying to walk it into the net!” For him, autumn smells like bread pudding, tea, and cigars, but only the best!
Autumn, for me, really begins in September. My signal is the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon. As soon as that begins, so does fall, and I pull out my adored cowled sweaters with loose dolman sleeves, the better to hide my saggy arms—leaves aren’t the only things falling around me! And God bless turtlenecks! Then I drag out the faux autumn leaf garlands for the mantle, the fall welcome wreaths for the front door, and contemplate my Halloween yard decor theme for the year. This year it was a “pumpkin garden.”
And, of course, I have to consider our costumes! Ours? Yes, Mini-Brit and I trick-or-treated together. This year he was Spongebob Squarepants, and I went as a jellyfish, wearing a stringy hat that lights up. One year he went as Spiderman and my dog, Poppy, was the spider. Oh yes, I dress up the dog. Poppy is a black English Staffordshire terrier who has been a pirate, a pumpkin, a bee, and a bat. This year, at age 12, she tires sooner in the day and sleeps more. She is in the autumn of her years, so she wore a warm, orange doggy shirt that says “Happy Howl-o-ween!” Speaking of sleep, Poppy has the right idea. Daylight savings ends on Nov. 7, and that extra hour of snooze-time is something I am looking forward to. There’s something to be said for hibernating!
The Brit thinks I’m doo-lally (Brit-speak for crazy), but I live for the fall. Perhaps all those years living in Phoenix, where the change in seasons is hot, hotter, muggy, and muddy, is why I relish autumn on the Central Coast so much. It reminds me of my childhood in Spokane. I adored getting a new plaid book-bag for school, and I still have a penchant for plaids, in spite of years of Catholic school jumpers and pleated skirts.
So now that the misty chill is in the air, the hills have been burnished by the last rays of Indian Summer, pumpkins and gourds decorate our porch, and my grandson has just brought me a few carefully chosen treasures of scarlet and gold leaves, I think I’ll heat some cider, lay a fire in the hearth, and make matzoh ball soup and bread pudding. I’ll put on something plaid, a favorite cowled sweater, remember my grandmother, call Mom, and gaze at the soft golden world through God’s sheer curtain.
Ariel Waterman is a sentimental romantic. Send hearts and flowers, preferably fall asters, via her editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Nov 4-10, 2010.