Summer Lovin’… Not So Much

When I was in grade 2 or 3, I recall the teacher writ­ing the names of the sea­sons on the black­board in block let­ters. Then she asked the stu­dents, which time of year is your favourite? The vast major­ity chirped ‘sum­mer!’ A few said ‘spring’. But I was the only kid in the class who said I loved ‘autumn’. I must have known myself fairly well, as that hasn’t changed.

While I love aspects of every sea­son, I have always been drawn to fall. Even today, I was read­ing a children’s book, and the illus­tra­tions with nearly naked trees, piles of orange leaves, and a low moon made me long for those months. Of course I never wish my time away, but dur­ing those short­en­ing days, I tend to feel the most contented.

Spring and sum­mer are full of play­ful energy, and expec­ta­tion. In a sense, those sea­sons are open and invit­ing. I keep think­ing of fid­dle­heads, and how they unfurl in the warmth, reveal­ing them­selves. Autumn is dif­fer­ent. It allows us to fill up and set­tle down. To give in to fatigue. To get ready to rest and sleep, in hopes of reju­ve­na­tion. Autumn is pro­tec­tive, it lay­ers and folds over itself in com­fort­ing predictability.

There is a par­tic­u­lar smell on damp Octo­ber evenings. I’m not exactly sure what it is – per­haps a com­bi­na­tion of wood smoke and rot­ting leaves and upturned earth shaved clean of pump­kin and cab­bage. Some­times it arrives inside the car as I’m dri­ving. I catch a strand, and then it’s gone. No one else seems to notice it, but it’s one of my absolute favourite smells.

I’ll have to wait. Sum­mer is now on the hori­zon, lift­ing up its green shoul­ders. Lots of sun­shine, bar­be­cues, fresh local fruit to enjoy. And if I’m really lucky, a few lazy hours to think and dream and write.