Today, practically
midway through October, I am deeply grateful that we’re finally getting an edge
to the morning air. This endless bleeding summer that started somewhere around
April is finally waning and Autumn is commencing, even if it is stealing in
quietly.
A friend of mine,
originally from Chicago although she hasn’t been in a proper fall season since
the late 80s, sniffed, “Of course, the leaves won’t turn colors here; they don’t.”
Well, actually, they
do—perhaps not the spectacular riot that we had in Virginia, on account of we
don’t get the sharp cold that seems to spark the brilliant hues I loved. But
they turn scarlet and rust and gold right outside my windows.
Coming from Southern
California, it wasn’t until I moved to Korea that I saw leaves actually
changing color on the hoof, as it were; before that it was all theoretical. I’ve
never lost my sense of wonder and delight at the show of nature, even though I
know it’s going to end in a bunch of naked trees for four or five months.
I once was standing at
a third-floor window in Morton Hall at William & Mary, watching the last of
the leaves being tugged from the branches by a brisk wind. I wondered what
students from Hawaii thought when they saw this process—if they were afraid
that the trees were dying. Probably not, but it had to be a weird sensation the
first time they ever saw it.
So even though Ms.
Chicago thinks this isn’t real fall, I say bring it on. I’m very grateful for
the changes around me.
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