Autumn Songs

When I was growing up, I always loved autumn. I loved the way the air suddenly felt cleansed of summer's humidity, how the skies were suddenly more blue, and how all the trees burst out in infernos of red and orange. Although my leo heart belongs first and foremost to summer, being an only child, autumn meant the end of lonely days when my friends were on family road trips to exotic sounding places like Saskatoon or The Badlands. Best of all, autumn meant going back to school, which always held the promise of new classes and adventures, maybe making new friends, and growing up, which, when you're not an adult, is Priority Number One. As a kid, I would have my first day of school outfit picked out a week ahead of time and would barely sleep out of excitement and nervousness the night before, a feeling that really only left me by year three of law school. I know, I know, you're thinking I was a geek and probably a teacher's pet, the latter half of which is true and the former not too far off the mark, I suppose. As my mother was also getting her degree through much of my childhood, fall meant a new semester for her, too, and I spent a lot of time on the University of Nebraska campus as the architecture department mascot. I loved the smell of art markers, the click of mechanical pencils, the rustle of drafting paper, the way classes were give and take instead of rote learning. I couldn't wait to go to college and took every opportunity to spend more time there, so I lived for Model United Nations, which was held there and run by college students; this in turn led to me dating college students, which upped my social status with my peers, if not my parents. I was ecstatic to finally be invited to real dinners that didn't take place at shopping mall food courts and to have intelligent conversations, both of which are hard to do, I suppose, if your only income is a $10 weekly allowance and your hormones are fogging your vocabulary skills. And once I finally got to college and later to grad school, it was and wasn't everything I thought it would be - growing up was a lot harder than I'd imagined - but I can say with certainty that those years were unequivocally the most intellectually enriching of my life, and I was pushed and pulled into shapes I didn't know I could make. Most of my closest friendships were forged in the fire of late nights philosophizing about the meaning of life over bottles of wine. My time at Bryn Mawr especially very much shaped me, even if the seeds planted while there didn't fully bloom until much later, and when I think of my alma mater, I always think of the view of Rhoads Beach from my senior dorm window, with the trees in their finest fall regalia, lit behind from the sun.

Autumn was in many respects the halcyon of my youth. And passing through the arbor of autumn leaves that surround me these days (a few shown above) reminds me of one of my favorite poems, one of the few I can (almost) recite from memory, because I read it at a French poetry reading contest held at the University - one of my first forays onto the campus not associated with my mother. I chose Verlaine's Chanson d'automne at the time because I loved the sound of it and the images it conveyed, both of which have stayed with me ever since:

Les sanglots longs

Des violons

     De l'automne

Blessent mon coeur

D'une langueur

     Monotone.

Tout suffocant

Et blême, quand

     Sonne l'heure,

Je me souviens

Des jours anciens

     Et je pleure;

Et je m'en vais

Au vent mauvais

     Qui m'emporte

Deçà, delà,

Pareil à la

     Feuille morte.

There's a lot here that's lost in a literal translation, but you can find some versions here. The funny thing is that the poem is now a favorite for different, sadder reasons, namely that I am old enough now to understand what Verlaine was talking about. At 14, one has no old days to cry over, really. I think in some ways, the hardest part of being an adult is the monotony that can ensue once one chooses a career path and a hometown and is responsible for a mortgage and dealing with contractors. Whereas autumn used to mean new clothes and excitement, now it's just the leaves that change. I suppose this is different if one has school-aged children or if one is an academic by trade. But I find that where each period of my life used to be so clearly demarcated every year with the falling of the leaves, now the seasons and what I do from year to year is generally a big blur. I can tell you, for instance, where I was, when it was, and more or less what I did for every year I was in school; after that, it is hard to place any event in time. Sometimes I forget that the 1990s were now 20 years ago; half the time I can't remember how old I am. My grandparents tell me that this phenomenon only gets worse with age.

So now Chanson d'automne strikes a more haunting chord with me. Every fall reminds me of my dear friend Matthias, whom I met one Halloween and lost to leukemia three autumns later. He taught me everything I know about painting a house correctly, which he learned painting houses in Germany during summers spent visiting his father there, so when I say correctly, I really mean with a level of exacting precision bordering on obsession. He was an exceedingly patient teacher, which is why he succeeded in getting me to pay attention to the details (every single cotton-picking one of them) where so many others had failed. He would be mostly pleased with the work I've done on the addition to the house he helped me rip apart and put back together back in the beginning (although he'd have long ago fired the contractors), but he would be exasperated that I didn't dovetail the baseboard ends where they overlapped, and there are some spots on the ceiling that I should even out with a sanding sponge. He'd give me an A on the wiring and an F on the hookup to the rainbarrel on the roof, which is totally gerry-rigged and I should really paint the barrel brown so it blends in to the wall. I hear him chiding me in my head every time I try and do something half-assed, but I also hear him telling me to lighten the hell up over the whole thing and be patient that it will all get done eventually. He had a great sense of humor and adventure, and he really knew how to give adversity the finger. He made me jump swimming pool fences after midnight and go for motorcycle rides. In doing so, he taught me how to live in the moment and really appreciate the gifts life hands you. He also made a mean peach cobbler. He had zero tolerance for moping or self-pity, so I try to remember these things when I miss him, and how fall is also about Halloween (my favorite holiday), picking apples and pumpkins on farms out in the country, perfect hiking weather, and a great time to beachcomb shells at Assateague since the crowds and mosquitoes are finally gone. Fall will always be the most dramatic and beautiful, if also sentimental, season, whose soundtrack goes like this: