Wednesday, November 5, 2008

And the Leaves That Are Green Turn To Brown, And They Wither With the Wind, And They Crumble in Your Hand

I had been thinking about the content of this post for some time, just mulling various things over in my mind. Every now and then it's fun to think back to the day of youth, the taste, smells and experiences that mold and shape you. Fall seems to bring this out of me most of all. A young lady named Brigid who's blog I follow seems to be thinking much the same thing, she writes one heck of a lot better than I do, so check it out:

I LOVE fall more than any other season, because it affects my senses so much. There are certain smells (and taste) that you can never replicate any other time than in the fall. The smell of a pile of leaves, just take one up, grind it up between your hands and smell it. The odor of burning leaves, (global warming be damned) the mixture of candle wax and charred pumpkin from the Jack o' lantern on the porch, candy corn and those funky wax lips, fangs and orange whistles that you could get for a nickle at the candy counter only around Halloween. The spices in mulled cider and later when I got older, the spices in a vicious drink called Apple Pie. -Grin- The traditional kettle of Brunswick stew cooked over a open fire in the back yard, (once again, global warming be damned) with hush puppies or a pone of corn bread with plenty of chopped onions in the batter.

The smell and comfort of a old worn sweater first pulled out of the cedar chest when the weather cools off. The sights, sounds and smells you experience while sitting out on the front porch early in the morning with that first cup of coffee. I mean real coffee, not something that should be served up by Don Ho on the big island, or sold at some place by a guy with a nose ring at 5 bucks a cup. With, (dare I say it?) a touch of evaporated milk. (or canned moo, as my grandmother called it)

Fall has a bunch more of things like that to remember, and to cherish. (at least to me) The other seasons don't seem to be as notable, although I don't think that well water has ever tasted quite so sweet as it did on a hot and humid August afternoon here in Carolina, when it was drank out of a beat up rusty tin dipper shared among three very dirty, sweaty, cousins.

I guess I am lucky since most folks feel the memory is a lot better than the reality. I have been told that things that are never quite as good as they remember them but with a very few exceptions, I don't find that to be true.

Thank goodness.

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