We are, quite frankly, revelling in the return of this thing called “fall.” It’s been a long time coming.
You had to look closely for any signs of seasons in south Texas – autumn colors are such a novelty there that people drive from hours around to the one state park sporting changing maple trees; lines outside the gates back up into three-hour waits. By the time we moved here after several years in Texas the crushing desire for chilly weather, turning leaves, and all that goes with Indian Summer was nigh on obsessive. As summer stretched on we kept saying things like “I can’t wait to see what this looks like in fall” or “Oh, look! those leaves are starting to turn yellow!”
Along with radiant trees, Autumn growing up in the Midwest meant corn over my head, golden soybeans, and apple picking with cider doughnuts. Here in our southern town I started noticing the green fields sprouting flecks of white fuzz a few weeks back; cotton is the local fall crop. Apple trees aren’t popular here either, but there’s a pick-your-own-grapes vineyard one minute up the road selling honey from their own hives, pie pumpkins, and gourds, some of which came home with me last week. Close enough.
We need sweaters in the mornings and evenings, and are looking forward to fires in the fireplace. The maple out front is tipped with red. Flying V’s of Canadian geese wing over the house. A pheasant skittered across the road in front of the car. It’s a slightly different sort of fall, but it is definitely fall, a much awaited gift.
[Side note: It might have been a disappointing harvest feast if the Pilgrims landed here instead of New England: “Here children – chew on some cotton balls and be thankful for your blessings.”]