When you are young, the end of summer is a sad thing. But youth feels there is a lifetime of summers stretching out endlessly that will return each year. Youth looks at the leaves falling and knows it is just part of nature’s cycle and they will be there when the leaves return. For the rest of us, the onset of autumn is especially sad because we are never certain the summer that just passed will return for us. The leaves that fall in autumn don’t always return, the utter optimism of youth just doesn’t know it.
My father-in-law had a place at the Shore he dearly loved. As he grew older, when he would lock it up for the season each year, he would plant a tender kiss on his beloved seashore home. When you grow old, it seems as if you are always saying goodbye.
Autumn is disrespected as a season. Poets and songwriters (and yes, even columnists) tend to view it as just a short gateway to winter. But autumn deserves better. We value spring and summer, we tolerate winter, but we show little respect for autumn. Why should only the young see the beauty in fall? Is it so long ago our hearts beat a little faster at the thought of returning to school where old romances held the promise of rebirth? Why should it be so difficult to remember how light our hearts felt at the crackle of red and gold leaves under our feet?
Autumn was so much more than football back then, and yet football has always been a big part of it, whether you were a fan or not. The crush of excited crowds on a crisp day, the single-minded purpose of the crowd to root the boys to victory, the clean beauty of the cheerleaders and their time-honored chants — all of it unmatched by any other season. Fall seems to enhance all the senses. Everything is sharper and clearer on autumnal afternoons.
We used to be at the Shore when the seasons changed. The tourists would disappear almost overnight, leaving the resort towns to the lucky residents who did not have to run back to work and school. The beaches buried under tanning bodies and besieged by loud radios would grow quiet and serene. We would walk along the water’s edge for miles with mostly the gulls for company, in awe of the Shore’s beauty during autumn.
The nights would quickly grow cooler. There was a different feel to the boardwalk. Many of the tacky shops and grease palaces would close as soon as the crowds disappeared. There used to be a clothing shop right off the boardwalk in North Wildwood called The Beehive. We would always find our way there at the end of summer. The styles were simple — woolen sweaters with cardigan collars; cotton blouses with paisley prints and little Peter Pan collars; beautiful woolen slacks; and knee-length Bermuda shorts. The Villager label was the brainchild of Max Raab before he ever thought about becoming a movie entrepreneur. Nothing could brighten the eyes of my girl than the thought of owning some clothing from The Beehive.
The New England countryside is justly praised for its autumnal splendor, but you don’t have to go that far to see the wonders of the season. Just a walk around Girard Park will convince you that you are lucky to be around for yet another fall.
I am struck in autumn by the acrid, but not unpleasant smell, of burning leaves; by the tang of good apple cider; by the chilly mornings and nights sandwiched in between the mild, lovely days. Autumn is really the new year no matter what the calendar says. Congress is back from recess actually believing it can solve the mysteries of governing which eluded it the previous session. The Supreme Court takes up its duties in earnest purpose, this year with a new chief justice and another new member on the way. Students take up the important matter of growing into adulthood or falling by the wayside like so many acorns that never become anything more than acorns. A battered nation seeks to recover from the horrors of Iraq and Katrina.
If you are like me, you return to your music collection to celebrate the season — Stan Getz and "Early Autumn," Billie Holiday making "Autumn in New York" sound at once so full of heartbreak and strange beauty, Tony Bennett and the old standby "Autumn Leaves," Van Morrison’s "When the Leaves Come Falling Down" and Gloria Lynne with a lilt in her voice offering "la tee da, la tee da — tis autumn."
Autumn’s smoky scent beckons. After all, my friend, it is the only thing between you and winter.
