by Brian Watkins
The onset of fall always brings a nice reality check with it. In a good way, though. The transition from summer to fall is like the end of one of those movies that not everyone likes because it’s kind of sad and touching, yet desperately real; a nice respite from the bubble gum sentimentality of summer blockbusters that provided us with more air conditioning than substance. Fall is that low-budget film that you hope gets an Oscar, but deep down inside you know it won’t because Christian Bale lost sixty-five pounds to play Sammy Davis Jr. We know it won’t get it’s full due, but that’s ok. It doesn’t need it.
So late September arrives and we all put on something flannel and take a walk by ourselves through a beige passage filled with introspection and armchair philosophy, usually happier than we care to admit.
Introverts like the fall to linger because it’s a time that you don’t need an excuse for not wanting to go to the beach.
At the end of September fashions emerge that seem to say, “It’s cool to dress like an old man,” removing the lens of ageism and making geriatric trends hip again. Only in the fall can you get away with wearing unconscionable amounts of twill.
At the end of September, you’ll find Calvinists and existentialists with a greater sense of hope, because, after nine months of waiting, the world is finally back on their side. Fans of Samuel Beckett can once again say, “You see! I was right!”, and public radio listeners sigh a little louder when they hear about the old Lutheran woman down the street who passed away, displaying proof of their humanity. All this, imperfectly good.
At the end of September, our diets begin to welcome strange, starchy inventions like breads with bits of squash and weird potato casseroles. Couscous. Soup is back, and in a few more months, stew.
When winter arrives, we’ll be lucky enough to smell the coming snow, like prescient animals before a storm; a skill the likeness of which is unknown to any other season.
There is a great comfort in fall, fallen-ness, and things that once were. Each year it gives our new(er) country a shot of nostalgia, of looking back, of a greater appreciation for corduroy. It's a sort of quiet reverence for the fading of things. Autumn gives more leeway to the use of clichés (I hope), because the sentiment “It’s all been done before” outweighs newness and originality.
At the end of September, there is a universal familiarity with things that have fallen. It’s nice that we all agree to take up rakes and make piles of the big, beautiful mess, creating a way for the green of next spring.
