By mom's request

Here is an essay I wrote that mom wanted to read.


The Road to Autumn
Erik Green
ENGL 410
Dr. North
9-15-08
Oh the leaves, are they not yet yellow? I see their green hues changing slightly like an aging apple. The wind, does it not yet carry a chill? I feel a tease, a taste, a whisper, like a first kiss, blowing through the window. No, summer has not yet cooled, and my muse-- the wondrous autumn-- isn't dancing in her marvelous red dress. Yes, the rays still beat madly upon my face, begging for my attention. I see that blasted ball of fire; I feel the waves of its furnace. It is like a child in need of its mother, a lover who has lost its mate. In October its will shall surely wane; it shall calm its violent eyes. But it’s September, and the burn is still real, the earth is still warm, and my muse still eludes me.
I remember an October morning and the last time I saw the muse. The sun, according to my watch, was sleeping late that day. Cars, like mine, awoke, and their lights illuminated creation like an amateur filmmaker with a cheap movie camera. In the Kangaroo Mart on the corner of “Some Road” and “Such-and-Such-Drive,” I watched a middle aged trucker with candy corn teeth and a mullet flirt with a young clerk with pretty eyes, brown hair, and broken dreams. Coffee pots burbled, and energy drinks were being peddled — two for three bucks. I took decaf. I drove on, past the stucco fast food joints and the feed-and-seed store, through one stoplight and then the next. I was ushered through town by the wind; its marvelous fingers maneuvered leaves of red and yellow across the ground like soldier crabs scurrying to the ocean. The sky was enchanting at daybreak, when clouds parted to reveal a black canvas being overtaken by splotches of orange and red. Outside, old men in fedoras and pressed suits walked with canes up sidewalks, while fit Presbyterian mothers in bicycle shorts and toboggans chatted on their cell phones and pushed their infants around the block. Manicured yards, like chain link fences, lead from one ranch house to another to another, and through dark windows televisions flickered the morning news. The old courthouse at the intersection was still pretty, though the inside was wrecked, which was analogous of the town.
I turned left, and there before me stood Fort Mountain, rising through the morning fog like the spire of a great castle. I passed the last hayfield where fescue grass and alfalfa were rolled into great bails. It reminded me of my childhood in Alabama and the peace that I’d found there in the little things: sweet tea, front porches. I thought of those hills covered in pines, red maples, and elm and the fog that rolled through the hollows in the morning. I missed that English style barn that was built long before I was born and the tin corn crib that ached and creaked under the stifling heat. I missed flinging a fishing rod over my shoulder and walking into the backwoods where bluegill and channel cats were as plentiful as biting flies. I missed the buzz of bicycle tires whirling underneath me on the aged blacktop, and the country store where everybody knew me when I walked in. I missed the smell of axle grease coming from underneath that old red Farmall tractor, and I missed dad as well. He died before I could spend another autumn with him, but we spent many together on that farm, cutting logs, mending fences, and raking the endless piles of browning leaves. How I missed that man.
Ahead I drove, and the car climbed and winded its way higher and higher along a road with dandelion yellow road signs that warned of sharp curves and perilous ravines. Seldom did I meet another car, and time marched slowly at thirty five miles per hour. I pulled off on a widened shoulder, got out and walked to the face of the bluff. Down below, the town’s buildings looked like Monopoly pieces scattered on a vast, green, living room floor. The sun stood like the head of a sunflower, a dull red in the gray sky. Below my feet, the tops of oak trees seemed to have no idea that something could be looking down upon them; they didn’t seem curious at all. I kicked a stone down the side of the cliff, but it did not rouse them. I drove on, and came to East Ellijay and then Ellijay, and I laughed at how a town so small could be divided into named parts. It took me a moment to find the orchard road, but I came to it and headed east. I saw the orchard on the right and stopped in. The cider press was pumping, and pretty girls were packing apples into baskets, and families were filling bags with Rome Beauty, Pink Lady, Golden and Red Delicious, and Granny Smith apples. Out back, acres of apple trees stood like soldiers in orderly rows, and people picked as many apples as they could carry. I bought a pint of apple butter, a quart of sorghum and then drove on, down the long, blacktop road to the pumpkin farm. As I went, I imagined that Charlie Brown and Linus lived there, and I could almost hear them talking about the Great Pumpkin. They would have liked it there, because it seemed like their kind of place.
The pumpkin farm was a scientific marvel, at least in my mind. There were pumpkins so big that they could devour a small child if they had the inclination and the jowls to do so, but those hadn’t been carved into them yet. People used wheelbarrows to haul them out, and they strained and grunted all the way. I was able to find the perfect one for the porch and one or two others that were suitable for pumpkin pie. Nearby there was a barn full of Indian corn — the kind with purple and red kernels — and children marveled at how corn on the cob could change color. Yes, autumn lived there, and I was thrilled to see her.
As I drove on, I thought about how the year had passed so swiftly, and I realized that winter would soon be upon us again. Though I had my muse in my arms, I already missed her. She never stayed long enough to ease my soul, and all I did in winter, and spring, and summer was mourn for her. I drove until I found a walking trail and a lone tree, and I sat with her for a long time. The beauty of the trees was spellbinding. It was like they all had gone to town and bought the best and brightest coats. They stood, dignified, like a tenor making his final bow, tears rolling down his eyes. Soon their leaves would fall, and they would stand naked and revealed, and they would look old and poor. Everything felt alive to me in that moment, when the breeze was strong and the tall grass blew on a facing meadow. There is some mysticism to the autumn; it is like tales of wizards and Camelot, or satellite images of deep space — a mystery. I lay back and rested my head on my hands and watched the blue, crystalline, afternoon sky as red and purple leaves blew around in circles, then landed gently on the lawn. Oak trees had orange leaves; maple leaves were red, yellow, and orange, and dogwood leaves were red-brown. I drove away from that place where autumn lived, but she came with me, and she spread throughout my town.
That evening my wife brought me coffee, and we sat on our front porch and looked at the sky as the sun began to set. We watched as mountains pulled blankets of cloud over themselves for the night, and I wondered if children mistook the blinking lights of airplanes for stars. On those cool evenings when the mosquitoes were long gone, and the sun was in bed early, I was most happy; I could see God. Inside, a football game was on, and the smell of cider permeated the air. Children somewhere were imagining stories about black cats and jack-o’-lanterns, and the wind was stirring the trees in a hundred backyards. It was the muse; it was autumn, rousing them all, as she danced and darted through her earthly playground. Truly she was a magical and mystical creative spirit, a gift of God.

Copyright © Erik Green 2008