Suddenly, it’s November. The smell of woodsmoke punctuates the crisp, chilly air as leaves rustle underfoot. The high school’s football stadium glows bright on Friday nights as the whistles and cheers echo through the air. On weekends, parents fill their cars with sports equipment and watch their kids’ soccer games with their hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee. The littlest players run in circles on the field, kicking at the grass, totally unaware that there’s a game even happening.
Families venture into the woods on crisp, sunny days to hike and listen for the calls of migrating birds, or they venture to the river to catch the end of the Chinook spawning season. Grass Dads pull out their mowers for the last time and say a fond farewell to their lawns for the year.
On days when the autumn rain pours down, we huddle inside under a cozy blanket with a favorite book. Our gardens that we’ve tended to so carefully throughout the year have begun to wilt and wither, with a few flowers holding strong until the first big frost. When the temperature drops, we pull out our winter coats and scarves and put our boots near the door.
Everything becomes still. The dark settles in earlier and earlier, and entering our homes in the evening feels like a warm, bright hug. We prepare for the holiday season, for Thanksgiving. We plan the meal and the activities surrounding it—long after-dinner walks and morning Turkey Trots and family flag-football games played on backyard lawns. We think about the year gone by and reflect on decades past.
This season is ripe for nostalgia. In my family, the holiday season began with Rake Day. I didn’t know until my teenage years that this wasn’t a national holiday, but rather one invented by my grandfather and celebrated only by my grandparents, their nine children and their families. We’d gather at my grandparents’ expansive cabin property with its acres of towering trees, music blasting through boombox speakers and the tables nearly sagging under the weight of potluck food.
On Rake Day, the adults spent the day raking the leaves and pine needles into my grandpa’s John Deere tractor trailer, stopping only for lunch and occasional breaks. My cousins and I raked for an hour at most, spending the rest of the day eating, dancing, stealing rides on the tractor, playing soccer on the lawn and jumping into huge piles of fresh leaves. When all the work was finished, the adults grilled burgers and hot dogs and we all had a dance party under the stars. My grandparents passed away several years ago, and we haven’t held a Rake Day in decades, but the sounds and smells of autumn take me right back to those moments.
In the two years since my son was born, I’ve become aware of the weight of so many of these memories, the way a simple walk through the woods can leave an imprint for decades to come. It inspires me to embrace the season, to sit outside on the grass with my son and breathe in the fresh air as we marvel at the beauty of each fallen leaf.
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