My husband, Paul, and I were out driving on a recent Sunday—into what appeared to be a leaf storm. Masses of leaves were heading straight into the car’s windshield. Wow, I thought. It really must be fall.
I’ve been packing summer clothes in boxes to store in the loft, a few items at a time. From my closet, I pulled out a green, flowered, nylon skirt. Then I reconsidered. I could still wear it, albeit with a sweater, tights and boots. It’s got to be fall.
I put on a jacket to go to work this morning. I’d worn my raincoat previously, with a thick cotton sweater, but this was the first time for the jacket. It is definitely fall.
Maybe I should put gloves in the pockets. Just in case.
Transitioning between seasons isn’t easy for me. I get into a mode of dressing and don’t want to change. I like the certainty that I will be comfortable in a sleeveless dress, or a short-sleeved shirt and shorts. I’m okay with adding a cardigan or leggings, usually by mid-September. But then we enter that questionable period. I was wearing leather dress boots while some people were still in flip-flops. That’s jarring to me.
The summer-to-fall transition is, perhaps, the most difficult. Fall-to-winter is really just more sweaters, a change into a heavier coat, and the addition of snow boots. As the temperatures get progressively colder, we instinctually add more layers.
We are already used to taking longer getting ready to leave the house, although the first time we have to shovel our way out is always an unpleasant reminder that we have truly arrived in the depths of the season.
By the time spring arrives in Maine, we are ready to start shedding sweaters and boots, and it becomes a gradual process that continues until we reach summer simplicity. Who really wants to end that pleasant, way-too-short interlude?
Oh, I know people post memes on Facebook saying they do. They are looking forward to leaf peeping and pumpkin-spice everything. They are tired of the heat, and, maybe, their kids being home all day.
I understand. The heat was particularly ferocious at times this summer. There were times when it was so hot, I didn’t want to be outside at all. I appreciated the cooler days toward the end of August and early in September, and took advantage of them by sitting out on the deck after work. But even on the hottest days, I tried not to yearn for autumn. Even in my tropical fog, I knew it would be coming soon enough.
Since I’m a school librarian, the summer-to-fall transition is blurry. Autumn means school, but we typically go back in August, which is definitely summer. I want to wear new clothes, but it was over 80 degrees on the first day of school this year. It’s crazy busy—do I even have time to think about what I’m wearing? But I must, because it’s picture day. Whatever I wear on that day, I’ll be wearing on my ID badge for the rest of the year.
Recently, I thought back to my own school days in the 1960s and ‘70s. I’d always have new clothes to wear for the return, and I wore them. It is true that in Massachusetts school doesn’t start until after Labor Day, but that wouldn’t make that much difference in our 21st-century weather. I thought, for a moment, that climate change must be the reason I can’t wear my new fall clothes until October.
Well, it may be one reason, but changing fashions and social norms are another. My old school pictures show me in dresses; girls weren’t allowed to wear pants or shorts until I was in high school. I always got three new dresses—lightweight, cotton dresses with short or three-quarter length sleeves, in primary colors. They weren’t summer frocks—they had an academic look to them. But they were cool enough for those late-summer days.
Still, I’m confident that we never hit 80 degrees back then. My grammar school was built around 1920 and there definitely was no air conditioning. Yet any suffering I remember had nothing to do with melting in my seat.
I thought the fall weather arrived abruptly this year. There are several shirts in my closet that I never got around to wearing. They’re not the right shape to wear a sweater over, and I feel I went from short sleeves directly to sweaters, without a segue of blouses on their own.
Although I evaluate autumn based on my apparel, Paul measures the season by the leaves. How many are still on the trees? How many are whipping at our windshield? He was sure, though we were 20 miles from home, that the leaves blowing on a stiff wind were headed straight for our backyard.
It does seem like our property is in some sort of leaf vortex. And, since Paul is retired, the job of raking is solely his. The time has come when, on a quiet day, you can hear the leaves falling. And so his lamentation has begun.
It’s one more way I know: it is really, truly fall.
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