Autumn is beautiful
Don Coldsmith
Originally published 12:45 p.m., November 12, 2007
Updated 12:45 p.m., November 12, 2007
More years ago that I like to admit, I wrote an essay for a college class with the title “Autumn is Beautiful.” I was not very happy about it. It was an English assignment, one of the necessary evils of a college degree. I was just a few weeks “back home,” after World War II and “the bomb,” which saved millions of American and Japanese lives, if we had been forced to invade Japan.
As it was, there was another year or so before I had accumulated enough points to rotate home for discharge. The counting of such points was quite complicated, depending on where and when we had been in combat areas.
I had been in two different theaters of war, the South Pacific and the Philippines, and had been among the first units ashore in Japan after their surrender. I was not yet old enough to vote, but had seen enough of the world to last a while. I enrolled at Baker University and my schedule called for certain subjects. Among them, a standard English course.
This seemed fair enough — basic education which I’d need, no matter what jobs I’d eventually land in. At that time, I had no inkling that I’d ever be writing, as my “day job,” half a century later. I was delighted to be where the sights and sounds and even the smells of autumn took me back to childhood. (Actually, I was delighted to be anywhere). I was thinking about how much difference the various seasons produce, and the words we use to describe the sensations that we feel, see, hear, smell — every sensation, before the year is completed.
Winter is challenging, I decided. The stark white of drifted snow, polished ice, a sense of enjoyment with the winter recreation, games, sports, skating, sledding, skiing , snowmen (and snowwomen, of course).
Winter is stimulating, as a New Year begins. It is a challenge, maybe, the chance to do something, hopefully better than the last time around, with the coming of spring.
Spring, I estimated, is “pretty.” The colors of her blooms are those of infancy — pink, pale blue and yellows, whites. The smells, too. The world is awakening from her deep sleep, ready to face reality once more. The scents, like the colors, are light and pleasant, suggesting again, new birth.
Through the summer, the colors and the scents change in character as the edible fruits and grains, nuts, seeds and other crops, native or wild, grow and ripen. They feed the humans, animals and the birds as they have since creation. The growth, as well, suggests maturing, the fullness of growth of the crops and the wild bounty of Mother Nature.
Then, the days become shorter. Suddenly, it seems, with color changes everywhere. The various shades of green, in the process of ripening, may have gone through a whole sequence of color.
Bright green, a favorite of spring for grasses, shrubs and crops, is a color which now decides to fade. Ripening grasses proceed from greens and yellows to golden tan, often both leaf and seed heads.
Along with this happens a marvelous mixture of smells. For some reason, this is more difficult to describe than any of our other senses. They affect emotions, from pleasure to dislike. Possibly, this is what remains of the instincts which, shortly after creation, allowed the human race to climb down out of the tree and to learn to walk upright.
At this point, almost overnight, the leaves and grasses begin to change color more rapidly. The oaks and maples seem to burst into flame overnight. Some species remain on the tree, while others, especially the maples, cover the ground with a brilliant blanket of orange, red and golden yellow.
I missed this in the South Pacific. Maybe that’s why I appreciate it more than any other season. Even when I’m raking leaves, I always bring in a bright bouquet, which will last for some time. Maybe, even, until it’s almost time to think about decorating for Christmas.
So, maybe I got more out of that assignment that I realized at the time. Maybe, even, some other lessons in life. Maybe the professor, faced with a class of students in which several were in my same situation, thought to teach appreciation for ... Oh, surely not ...
See you down the road.
Author and columnist Don Coldsmith lives in Emporia.