September, Season of Mists and Gnome Cuteness

In the mountains of North Carolina, September is a very different month from any I've ever experienced.  I've lived in the U.S. Southeast all my life, from Alabama to Virginia, college and grad school in South Carolina, and almost a quarter of a century in Hollywood, FL, far, far southeast.  I have always longed for autumn, perhaps because I remember wonderful autumns from my youth in Charlottesville, VA and Knoxville, TN, with hay rides and pumpkins and blazing leaves, all the autumnal elements that I love.

Even in Montgomery, Alabama, I remember the smell of the furnace coming on for the first time.  We'd have a chilly night in late September, and my dad would be the first one out of bed to make sure the house was warm for the rest of us.

For much of my adult life, in coastal South Carolina and coastal Florida, September has meant hurricanes.  Even the ones that had greater impact elsewhere had disruption and upheaval where I lived.  Some of it was my fault, my needing to pay attention just in case.  And when there weren't hurricanes, there was unrelenting heat and humidity.  September has not been lovely in coastal regions.

In the mountains, at least this year, I'm having a wonderful September.  I got out of the car yesterday and thought, someone is grilling something wonderful.  And then I realized I was smelling woodsmoke, even though it's not very cold yet.

From a distance, the trees still look green.

But up close, I see much more yellow, gold and brown.  

I hope it doesn't mean that we won't have more beautiful leaves, but I'm still new enough here that I'm happy for any leaves that change color, as opposed to the palm fronds that used to fall and damage my car.

These days, most of my walks take place in the pre-dawn dark, through roads at this church camp that houses my small neighborhood, with just a few streetlights.  The other morning, I watched the mist curling with literal curves I could see in the air, and I thought of Keats' poem "To Autumn," its first line "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness."  I've tried to capture that mist in a photo, but so far, with limited success.

The days are warm and dry and gorgeous.  The nights are increasingly quiet.  In late July, the crickets and cicadas sang until 3 a.m.  Last night I opened the window around midnight and was struck by the quiet compared to summer.

I think back to that Keats poem, which I've called the perfect autumn poem.  Yet when I teach it, my students are unmoved and perhaps baffled.  I tell them I'm going to read it and something autumnal is missing--can they tell me what's missing?  Hint:  it's falling leaves.  Not only can't they give me the answer, they can't fathom what's actually in the poem.

The other morning, as I walked and delighted in the fog rolling in on little cat feet (different poet, I know), I thought about fall and wondered if it's possible to write a poem that says something new about fall.  Until recently, I thought it wasn't.  But maybe now, in our time of climate change, maybe so.

This year, I'm not the person to write that poem.  I'm still wonderstruck by all the traditional autumn elements that are all around me.  I've made several batches of pumpkin bread, and this week-end, I think I'll make pumpkin cinnamon rolls.  I will stop by an apple orchard soon.  And I've added the gnomes to the pumpkin patch I'm creating by our mailbox:

This Saturday, I hope to add more pumpkins when I go to the farmer's market.  Let me close with a close up of those gnomes made out of yarn.

Now let me lace up my walking shoes and go out into the autumn morn (to use Keatsian diction).