National Post (National Edition)
Fall into autumn
There is a particular smell that reverberates through the air by the third week of September. It’s crispy, fresh, a little dewy, slightly chilly, always smoky. If that sounds like you can eat it, that’s the point; it’s a fullbody sensation on par with fresh apple pie, a uniquely sumptuous climate consumed with longing.
Yes, the spring suggests beginnings, which brings a summer of optimism. But as the preamble to the frozen dead that is the winter, autumn has been defamed by a kind of stigma. It’s too frequently associated with demise. When, in reality, there is no more alive season, from the reds, greens and golds blooming through parks, woods and even busy streets, to the chilly winds brushing past strongly enough to warrant layers.
It’s a vista that could’ve been penned by Louisa May Alcott or Lucy Maud Montgomery, revived by Meg Ryan in an oversized turtleneck in You’ve Got Mail (or When Harry Met Sally), or Jason Schwartzman sporting a red beret while pretending to read The Powers That Be under the shadow of a tree as large as his ego in the Rushmore quad, or the cast of St. Elmo’s Fire blazing down a Georgetown street, crammed into their jeep as the leaves dance around them.
There’s a crunch to the season, not only in the smashing of leaves and stray branches, but in the crusts of the pies and the crackling of the fires.
It’s a daily poetry, made all the more beautiful due to its tragically temporary nature. Some years, it lasts a month; other years, it lasts days. A season that plays far too hard to get, it can sometimes be difficult to tell if it visited at all.
While summer’s nostalgia is unmatchable, there remains a palpable expectation that lingers in the dim glow of autumn evenings. A certain hunger for immediate gratification, the autumn craves the cozy and the comfortable. The great flings of summer and live-in loves of winter have no space here, so long as the bed stays warm for a night.
Insecurities are buried deep in dim lighting and layers, granting a kinder filter to everyone and everything, drowning in their chunky sweaters and long-sleeved tops, scarves and thick socks spilling out over the tops of clacking boots, grins and shivers warmed by fuller bellies.
There’s a palpable kindness, made real by the impending gloom of winter. Evenings stand still and the brief glow of mornings hold a certain romance to them.
It doesn’t totally surrender to subtleties, however. There’s the suspension of joy in October baseball, the thrills of Halloween accented with the nostalgic laughs of kids around the corner, the anxiety of back to school and, if you have room for even more, the gluttony of Thanksgiving.
More a rebirth than a death, the fall is life being lived. In this, October becomes a choice, toward either a lingering sadness or ephemeral enchantment. Whatever the case, passion is on a high, stretched thin throughout the shorter days.
The autumn is a melodrama. Let it move you.