Only two or so months ago, we were all jewellers comparing our gems: strawberries held skywards in delicate pincers. This is a good punnet, one of us would say on the picnic blanket. The others agreeing whole-heartedly, mid-mouthful. Hmphmm.
Now we heave pumpkins into baskets, lifting great orange mottled boulders for fun.
How plump the world is come Autumn. Everything brimming from weeks drenched in sunshine, a glossy sheen from September rains. Greens ready to burst into flame at a moment’s notice — over a single night those leaves may turn a dozen shades of orange. A sudden rust. Blink though, and they’ll be on the ground. Carpeting lawns and pavements without consent, but without complaint, too.
As we drove the other day, something fell onto the car roof. THUD. What was that Mum? —An acorn, Darling! It happened again on the way home — my son, now a proven thud detector, reassured me: Just an acorn, Mum.
Nuts hurling down and hurricane speed winds, bucketfuls of rain and the crunch of leaves beneath feet — how funny that I used to consider Autumn as quiet. Cute and cosy, even.
What we picture of the season – scarves rippling behind us, warm reds and fires in hearths – are just pictures. Golden-edged trees and muddied boots mask the reality of savage changing weather and sodden socks. Don’t forget the plants shedding seeds and fruit, collapsing in plain sight — their bodies spent from a Summer in full bloom. Passing by, I’m sure I heard them shout: “DON’T PITY US. WE’RE JUST DYING FROM ALL THE LIVING WE’VE DONE.” I made a note of it somewhere. A story to tell my best friend with a glass of wine, rosy cheeked:
You know what a tree told me once?
How brave these plants are compared to us. Relying on a simple sum of instinct plus the hint of cooler air to drop everything. Bracing for the blue-white-grey months ahead.
I won’t pity the trees, as they minded me not to. But I’m sad about the acorn. A metal roof its fate. After all that.
An oak tree once tormented my friend — their lawn caught every acorn that fell. Rows of cartoon-like leaves stood a few inches tall everywhere you looked. I wonder what’s happened to the acorns? I said. Laughing at me, they asked: What do you mean?
We dug one up and that acorn had split like a trouser seam: its roots and shoot a pair of naughty tongues stuck out to taste the earth. It was remarkable. The case of the acorn hadn’t dissolved into soil granules or melded with the exploding baby-tree, it was right there. Brazenly so. I had half-expected it to be shrivelled at least. Withering. But you could see the whole story of that new Oak in the palm of your hand.
The others weren’t laughing anymore.
But, tell me: did you hear Autumn arrive? For this year is the first I was truly listening, and it hasn’t let up since.
Thud.
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