Jean Wall Penland Illustration
I love it when I can reach for the flannel and fleece, stock up on coffee and pumpkin beer, gather wood for a fire, and make sure I have a book of ghost stories to cozy up with on the long, dark nights.
There is something about the change in the weather—about this colder season—that speaks to my soul. I feel a connection to life that eludes me during the heat of the year. With cooler weather I am comfortable and content. It is a call for me to slow down, calm down, reflect on my life and reground myself.
Most people find the blazing colors of autumn beautiful and awe inspiring, especially in the mountains. Yet, when the last leaves have fluttered silently to the ground, that awe may become disdain and some may see only barren trees and bleak landscapes. It’s as if they begin a dismal wait, dreading the cold and the long nights to come.
But there is beauty in the seeming bleakness; beauty simple and austere that affects the spirit more than the eye. For beauty doesn’t die, it merely changes form. Summer’s noisy opulence gives way to the calm, beautiful austerity of autumn.
Ah, yes. Summer. A beautiful season, lush and green, vibrant and full of life. Cicada, katydid and cricket trill through the night. Cardinal, wren, and sparrow fill the day with their melodies. There’s the refreshing sweetness of a perfect watermelon or cantaloupe, along with homegrown squash, zucchini, and succulent heirloom tomatoes. (German Johnsons were my mother’s favorite. She loved them on a biscuit. I’m partial to Cherokee purples on sliced bread with mayo and black pepper. Delicious. A tomato sandwich is as summer as it gets.) There’s no school, open pools, grilled burgers, and ice-cold beer. Fireflies and slip ‘n slides. Lakes abuzz with boats and bikinis, sunscreen and sangria.
Summer. While I’m not immune to its charms, it is the season I most dislike. In fact, the moment it starts, I begin counting the days until it ends. I find summer, in a word, oppressive. The relentless heat—redoubled by the incessant humidity—saps my energy and my spirit. I trudge through it and go about my business with no small amount of sweating and cursing.
I love it when summer is taking its last breaths, exhaling a coolness that will blow away the hazy, humid air, revealing high clouds amid vivid blue skies. Trees flame into fall, red, yellow, orange and gold. Chimney smoke and burning leaves, the spice of pumpkin pie and the tingling sharp smell of apple cider will scent the season. The vibrant green fields of corn wither to a dull brass, destined for silage. Maddening mosquitoes, ticks, and flies are in their death throes.
With the arrival of autumn the oppression begins to lift and I become energized with the knowledge that cold is fast approaching.
I am reminded of a perfect fall day many years ago. A friend and I were fly fishing on Helton Creek, a beautiful area in the North Carolina mountains very near the Virginia border. My friend, by far the better angler, had moved farther upstream, drawn by the challenge and chance of the catch, and I was alone in a deeper part of the creek.
Standing in my waders, the flow of water cool against my legs, I drew in my line and simply watched and listened. Leaves fell like a soft rain, drops of gold gathering on the creek for their final journey. I saw trout near the bottom of the pool facing upstream, lazily holding position against the calmer current, awaiting their next morsel. I heard the rush of water over rocks and fallen limbs, and the whisper of crisp wind through the trees. In that moment, I felt a part of something much greater than myself. In that moment, I experienced a profound peace and serenity that’s so often out of reach in our frenzied summer world.