The Pleasant Aroma of Fall’s Decay

Fall is my favorite season. I like everything about the fall - the colors, the coolness, traditions and celebrations. My favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, is in the fall. It is the one holiday where nobody really wants anything from anybody other than their love, friendship and maybe their food.

I enjoy walking in the fall and the crunch of leaves beneath my feet. Sometimes I walk alone and other times with a friend. I have a walking buddy, Arlene. We walk the Arabia Mountain Trail as it winds behind neighborhoods and into woods, alongside streams and wildflowers on granite outcrops. We pause to admire a flower, leaf or tree. We take photos as if visiting for the first time.

There’s a wonderful woodsy smell in the air that shows up in the fall. I expect the alluring sweetness of spring blossoms. Yet, I can’t deny the welcoming and pleasant aroma from fall’s decay.

The chill in the air, short dark days and the smell of fireplaces sends me straight to my kitchen. Soups, chowders and stews are often on the stove or in the slow cooker. I’m inspired to try out new and savory recipes from seniors lingering in the produce section of the grocery store. But if it should rain, I would forget these things and head to my sofa with hot cider, a blanket and a good book.

As a child, my mother would send me to the basement to retrieve fall and winter clothing. She would be in the kitchen taking down the yellow and white curtains. I remember their whimsical movements against the open window. Their replacements were brown, white and joyless. In my own way, I do the same. I move clothes from one closet to another. I place a fall wreath on the front door and just below, two planters full of mums.

Some are sad when the long summer days end, and with it, our summer play. But, there is a time when we must gather together and come inside. We need things to begin. We need things to end. And fall is that reminder.

“Autumn…the year's last, loveliest smile." - William Cullen Bryant

My Father's Papers

Growing up, there were always newspapers in the house. There were usually three newspapers delivered to the house.  These papers arrived daily for my father’s enjoyment.  As kids we poked around with the Sunday paper after my father had gone through it.  I read the Parade and my brothers the comics.  My mother bypassed the news in search of sales.  She mostly used old newspapers to capture the skins of peeled potatoes and shucked corn when cooking.   Sometimes I was able to amuse this deeply religious woman with the daily horoscope, “Ma, today you will find love in unexpected places.”  But it was my father who thoroughly read the newspapers. He would read them at the kitchen table, from his big chair in the den, while sitting on the front porch or by the wood burning stove in the basement. 

The papers lived in various parts of the house which annoyed my mother.   There’s nothing more unruly than a paper once opened.  It can’t be returned to its former pristine state.  It’s easier to leave them opened and disheveled all over the place.  Sometimes my mother expressed her frustration, “I’m so tired of Your Father’s Papers.”   She always said Your Father’s Papers as if to mockingly announce a great novel or play.  But what was she to do?  All things considered, this is just the byproduct of a man that likes to read newspapers.   Still, the papers were just one more thing she had to corral to maintain some semblance of order at home. 

I’ve always been amused that my father involves my mother in the reading of his newspapers.   He doesn’t seem to notice her shoddy rapport with his papers.  Sometimes he would suddenly appear from another part of the house with his paper “Rudell, look at this!  I told you…they going to jail!”  They were usually a political figure that he had been following.   He would monitor their hopeful rise to office all the way to their ruinous end.   Mom would acknowledge his five alarm news with a slight nod or lift of the eyebrow.   He would walk away muttering his convictions into the air and shaking his head, ”Naw, uh-uh…you just can’t do that.”  

I often think of my parents as I try to manage reading and taming the Washington Post I have delivered to my apartment once a week.   I know there is no great mystery or feat in reading a newspaper.  If I were speaking to a therapist, she would look over me closely and say “Mystery…hmmmnnnn….let’s explore this a little more…”   Obviously I don’t rely on this once a week delivery, that I pick through, as my primary source of information.  So, why do I have the subscription? We all do things that tie us to our childhood.  We desire to have a better understanding of it or want to relive a feeling or experience that we know we can’t get back.  Sometimes it’s a conscious choice and other times not.  Maybe that’s why I have them living with me in my small space.

There are still a lot of papers in my parent’s house.  I wasn’t sure which ones so I asked my dad.

“Dad, what papers do you get at the house?”

 “The (Baltimore) Sun and The (Capital) Gazette”

“I thought there was another paper like the Afro American or did it go out of circulation?”

“Oh Yeah, I get the Afro American but that’s just once a week.  They still around.” 

“You read these papers every day!” 

 “Yeah.  Why?” 

“I was just wondering.”

Of course, I wasn’t just wondering.  I was just amazed.