The Two Faces of Autumn

There’s a scene in ET where the alien child releases his connection to Elliot so that the boy won’t die, as well. That moment of separation, poignant and memorable, is the difference between fall in Florida and Michigan.

I remember autumn in Michigan.

Naturally, we always looked forward to fall colors in the woods and neighborhoods in Michigan. The sugar maple on Caroline in front of the Key’s house looked as though it caught fire. From green to orange, red, and yellow, depending on the kind of tree, vibrant colors swept over the forest in the U.P. by early October, and moved south.

Cider mills offered fresh cider and cinnamon doughnuts. Apple orchards produced Jonathan, McIntosh, Northern Spy, Cortland, or golden and red delicious, among other Michigan varieties. Generations of cultivation gave you the choice of sweet or tart, depending on whether you preferred pies, apple crisp, or biting into one newly picked, with or without caramel coating.

(I learned that apples were domesticated 4,000 to 10,000 years ago in the mountains of Central Asia, and transported along the Silk Road to Europe, bred with crabapples on their journey. Crabapples. Now, that’s another story.)

Pumpkin patches popped up, offering large, orange winter squashes for pies, seeds, and jack-o-lanterns on Halloween. A patch of pumpkins on the vine triggered the essence of fall for me, no matter how many times I saw one.

Indian or flint corn was another symbol of harvest, especially at Thanksgiving. An American food from pre-Columbian times, it was used in hominy, popcorn, and table decorations.

Frost was expected any time with crisp, cold mornings. Sweatshirts and sweaters reappeared. We dug out corduroy pants, and giggled at each other at the swish-swish sound when walking.

The sky turned bright blue on clear days, a different color than in springtime. As the sun moved lower on the horizon, the amount of Rayleigh scattering changed, producing the deep, vibrant blue.

Squirrels were busy collecting, digging, preparing for winter.

We packed away our summer wear and unboxed our winter clothes.

Songbirds flew south.

Wind blew across fields, calling you to follow.

Many friends and family chose autumn as their favorite season.

Central Florida offers pumpkin patches near Halloween, and pumpkins do show up on porches. Live oaks lose their tiny leaves all year long, but a few trees do change leaf color—sweetgum, blackgum, and cypress—and green fields turn dull and olive in shade.

Florida children add jackets and reluctantly choose long pants over shorts, but a typical sight in chilly weather for a Florida native is a parka with flip-flops.

Autumn in my new neighborhood is a slow blend of summer into what passes for winter. Yes, we get frosts and freezes, and yes, there are cold snaps, but they don't last, and birds sing year long.

All of that is a blessing when I remember the blast of winter days, but I miss Michigan autumn. The brisk air, the falling leaves on wooded paths, the first frosts on the lawns, cider mills, and drives to see sweeps of bright sugar maple and oak color.

I haven’t worn corduroy since I was in high school, decades ago, but still look forward to pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving, and brag about Michigan fall.

May the joy of autumn offer you taste, color, and perfume.

I enjoy my memories, but would prefer a fresh glass of cider.