What a spectacle. From mid-September through November, the eastern United States puts on a grand display of color that, in favorable times, makes people go out for hikes, drives to scenic overlooks and to picnic in state or national parks. It’s something to see, no matter where you are. Anywhere deciduous trees are found, you’ll see a show never again to be repeated. No two autumns are the same; weather, sunlight, soil moisture–all vary, even if only slightly, every year.
If you’ve noticed, and I don’t say this with any condescension because never thought about until I was in my 40s, summertime as much as the spring itself plays a part in what we see in autumn’s breathtaking show. Drought, prolonged heatwaves and more all have a say in what we’re going to see come fall.
The weird part: most of the fall colors were always there, have been since spring, but we couldn’t see them. The yellows, golden yellows, oranges and browns? Yeah, all summer long, you and I walked right under them and never considered such a possibility.
And why should we? They’re trees. Terrifying to some, who think of trees as condos for bugs, snakes and birds, not to mention nasty squirrels. Ignored by others, haunted by birdwatchers, trees have two indefatigable predators: fire and ax men. The threats posed by tornadoes, hurricanes, landslides and more are nothing compared to fire and man.
They’re fighters, though, trees. They somehow “communicate” to nearby trees of whatever species they are, so if one is attacked by a common pest, it sends a little message and others produce defensive measures. Neat, huh? And even from an ashen floor after a fire, life will come again. It takes decades, but trees will return.
But I’m way off the subject. I was talking about the colors of autumn. A gift as nights grow longer, something to lift one’s spirits before the bleakness of winter sets in, causing seasonal depression for many who aren’t even aware of it. Because unless it snows, or after the lights of the holidays come down, everything settles into a monotony of colorlessness and darkness. Even the winter sun seems to hate us; neither warming nor comfortable on the eyes as diffusion differs in colder air, it holds no respite from the horrible dreariness of everything around us.
It seems like magic, then, that for only a short time before winter, nature gives us something so beautiful, then takes it away.
For the same reason that chlorophyll and photosynthesis hides those colors during the summer, the leaves must die and fall. As nights grow longer, photosynthesis is slowed, sugars clogging the stem. No longer able to live, the chlorophyll is stopped, and the color changes, and the stem goes dry and fragile.
That’s when it’s time to break out the rake. Except that, leaf falls are beneficial to the soil. Unless you live in a community that requires a limit on grass height, mulching your trees and raking leaves, you should just let them lie. Or, rake some in early fall, then ignore the last of them.
Now, don’t mistake me for a hippie tree hugger. I’m not putting hippies down, but I once saw a video of teenage girls sitting, encircling the stump of a recently felled tree, sobbing and choking out, “I am so sad right now” and it’s every bit as silly as it sounds.
However, I too am a bit sad. Wildfires and deforestation continue to grow ever more prevalent. That’s the future, dying more each day.
This year, the colors are muted. Some have yet to change but so far, the colors are dull and mottled with brown. Here in the lowlands between the Appalachian mountains and the mighty Chesapeake Bay, most days all year have turned into degree days. That’s when you use the heat or air conditioning. The NWS may not recognize as many degree days as there truly are, but that’s too bad. People might need air during the day, heat at night. Everyone is different, and what feels comfortable to one, another may find distressing. Even body temperature is not a constant norm at 98.6° Fahrenheit. Normal is different. It just is.
The days seem short with the earlier sunset. The leaves offer no comfort. For me, the wonder of fall colors ended in 1970.
The golds, reds and oranges were so perfect that year. In crisp air, the sun shone through them and dazzled me just a year before. But I never again simply gazed at them in awe. Never again saw those colors the same way. The last shred of my innocent soul had been replaced with a darkness and vileness which remains still, unyielding and implacable in the seasonal displays of fall leaves, Christmas lights or music. Seasons change, but I never can. I’ll always be out-of-sync and detached. I can see beauty, but even that ability is being taken from me by age, time and a life lived in shadows, nightmares and unbearable pain. Just because I’m still breathing, it doesn’t mean I’m not dead.
Memoirs of an American Asshole 