Beautiful shades of grey

I stepped outside this morning and the weather stirred up memories like a gentle breeze whipping up the fallen leaves.

I’ve lived in the Southeast for over half my life now but I will always be a Midwesterner. Growing up in a small town in the Midwest was something that I wouldn’t trade for the world. As much as I imagine it was a very unique experience, I accept that growing up in any small town across the nation at the same time as me probably had many similarities. The one thing that I miss the most about that experience was a particular time of the year: autumn.

Autumn in the Midwest when I was growing up was the season that imprinted the most on me emotionally. It was the harvest time when farmers would finally pull in their crops and it was a time for small town festivals, which I imagine came into being as a celebration of the harvest. It’s hard to explain how big of a deal the small town festivals were when I was growing up. The annual calendar really revolved around it. Our town’s festival was set up around the courthouse on the town square and was packed with booths and activities. It’s not hyperbole to say that the entire town would visit the festival. Our festival was always in early October and that almost always coincided with the transition between late-summer and autumn. It wasn’t uncommon for Friday night to be warm and Saturday morning to be rainy and cold (and sometimes spitting snow). Our school presented senior letterman jackets on the Friday of the festival so it was always funny seeing senior showing off their jackets that afternoon while sweating like crazy and then back on Saturday with a hoodie underneath it fighting to stay warm. After school was let out on Friday, there was a mass exodus of students walking the 5 blocks down the street to hit up the festival. There were so many kids huddled around the balloon dart game to try to win a small mirror with AC/DC or Guns ‘n Roses etched on it. It was a tradition to grab huge cinnamon rolls as a snack and a walking taco for a quick on-the-go meal. There was always a booth making apple butter the old-fashioned way with an old engine that in no way would pass an OSHA inspection and was manned by the old timers in town who knew their way around sketchy farm implements.

As much as I miss those festivals, I really miss the weather of the Midwestern autumn. I miss the grey skies with a bit of chill in the air that was just perfect weather for a hoodie and/or a flannel shirt. It was cold enough that you’d walk around with your hands in the pockets of your jeans and the gusts of wind would occasionally make you have to turn your back to it to avoid its bite until it passed. To me, it will always be the time of year when dad would go out cutting down trees to let them start curing so that we could return later to cut, split, and stack for the following winter. Midwestern autumn was the time of dressing in layers outside because, when you started working, you’d shed down to a t-shirt after needing a flannel and jacket at the start. The time when a big pot of chili would be made and eaten on for days. The time of warming up the car before school. The time for basketball to start up.

In the Southeast, this glimpse into what I remember as Autumn happens only for a few weeks each year and much later in the year than in the Midwest. Regardless, I always cherish the deep feelings that well up during those short periods of time.

Do I ever miss this season…