Hopeless Autumn. Almost

I admit to being obsessed with things that most people call unimportant.

I fuss relentlessly over stuff: figurines on a shelf, pumpkins on the porch, ornaments on the tree. More over here. Less up there. No one else sees it, of course. But I can’t help taking note of small details.

Several people have pointed out a New Yorker cartoon that reminded them of me, knowing I’d ask why it was funny. Yes, I get it. But still…

I happen to take autumn, among other things,  personally, remembering all the way back to my father raking leaves when I was four. He created a large pile near me, stepped back, and said, “Jump in, Karen!” I did, sinking into the leathery yellow. We both laughed at this seasonal joy.

Each fall I wait for that joy again.

In Tulsa, the highlight happened across the street when two maples, planted by Mr. and Mrs. McCullough as 1940s newlyweds, flipped their inner switches. One maple burned red and the other, yellow. When the western sun streaked through those leaves, our living room blazed.

During our first year in North Carolina, we drove the Blue Ridge Parkway on a perfect fall day because the mountains resounded with simultaneous color. Red, orange, purple, and yellow splashed beneath the sky, as if Van Gogh had painted every ridge overnight. When we stopped to eat our picnic lunch, Maggie showed a little girl, visiting  from California desert country, the happiness found in leaf piles.

So given my sentimental attachment to the season, you’ll understand why this year’s dry, erratic autumn broke my heart.

A maple in our yard surrendered early, turning brown and tossing its lackluster leaves in one day. Another tried going yellow but reconsidered, its brown leaves clinging, confused. The new dogwood went half-baked red. One paralyzed tree remains green even now.  Another hovers on the verge of orange, while many limbs argue for withered brown.

I thought I’d seen the worst of this season. Then next door my favorite gingko tree didn’t even try. Instead of unfolding golden fan-shaped leaves, it dumped all 10,000 green leaves overnight. This cannot be good.

The trees and I are distressed, disappointed, downright defeated.

I long to confront every autumn with a remote that clicks all trees instantaneously to their vivid hues.

Then one morning our dog Maria and I walked north toward the Thomas Edison Birthplace and spotted the unexpected fall color of our lives. A peacock who arrived on the grounds and established residency. Who could have guessed?

And early morning at my desk the next day, I turned from my writing to see dawn washing the sky in a shade I’d never seen in my life. If the bare tree had been filled with its usual yellow leaves, I’d have missed this rare color beyond my window.

In short, I could have tinkered to high heaven this fall and never have managed to know such unpredictable color perfection: royal blue and emerald green followed by skyward rosey peach.

Forget what you think you want in autumn. Your joy is not necessarily in the leaves.

Something ever better is always ahead.

Wait for it.