Woodsmoke and Dancing Leaves
I find the earlier half of October to really challenge the ideal version of myself. Where I usually try to meet others with compassion and grace, foliage season and the traffic it brings to our oft sleepy road practically begs me to embody the most grumpy old-timer in reaction to out-of-state license plates. Sometimes I do. I’m sad to admit that I have, on rare occasions, thrown an exasperated hand into the air, often followed by a mouthed expletive. This type of reaction is usually in response to a yellow license plate driving too close to my dog on a walk, or at the person driving the third car in a row over our neighborhood one-way covered bridge. (You’re supposed to take turns!!!)
Here is a good time to mention that not all locales are equal. Mine is a hotbed of out-of-towner activity, at all times of the year. But from September 20ish to approximately October 17th, hold on to your sanity. Over the course of a 15 minute drive through our town, you can expect to find at least three tourists ambling down the middle of the road with a DSLR in hand, seemingly unaware of your approaching vehicle. Or you might come across a long row of their cars, left parked on the side of a narrow back road, so that their drivers can traipse, zombie-like, onto private property in hopes of capturing the very same photo they’ve seen on Instagram thousands of times.
Maybe here is a good time for me to acknowledge that I have played this role of zombie tourist, I’m sure of it. Perhaps in even worse circumstances like riding a camel in Morocco or getting up before dawn like every other white person in Siem Reap that morning to see Angkor Wat at sunrise. Not only have I been a zombie tourist, I naively exerted my disproportionate privilege to do so. Given all of this, I should probably go a little easier on everyone who comes to Vermont from somewhere else for only photos and maybe an orange leaf or two. They even buy our apples and donuts and get lost (on purpose! So fun!) in our corn mazes. When I view the whole ordeal from this perspective, it’s actually quite cute.
Here is where I’ll name the fact that I reside on stolen Abenaki land, and any claims I have to it are in effect, null. But, I was born here and have only really known here. The seasons are my guidebook, the cycles are my faith.
Alongside the old barns and apple orchards, the chlorophyll is draining from the leaves and they fall to the ground to mark the end of a growth period, the beginning of a forced reprieve. The snipes and nighthawks that flew North in April have doubled back and are flying over our heads again, this time directed South. The bears are frantic in their own slow way, stocking up on fat reserves before their long nap. The geese honk goodbye on their way to North Carolina and I wish they wouldn’t leave. The ever-reliable turkeys strut through the pastures, the dead leaves on the lawn look like grounded bats. The spring fawns are almost as big as their mothers. The salamanders and wooly bears are crossing the road (look out!). Woodsmoke pours into the sky and the leaves, carpeting the forest floor, tumble and twirl over each other even when no-one is watching. A farewell dance. Have you ever stepped outside on a cold October night and smelled the air? Did you catch the notes of decay and chilled water and silence? How did it make you feel?
I went for a walk on a hard day last week. As I strode down the final hill, a yellow leaf fell from the sky and landed right on top of my heart. I’m not exaggerating when I say it made my entire week. This place cares for me. The crows that live on this land know me. The mice digging dens under our deck are my neighbors, and the trees are here witnessing it all. There is community here and we are all surrendering together.
Do the the leaf peepers see this, I wonder? I want them to. I want them to feel an inexplicable sense of urgency at the sight of a hard frost, or the immense comfort that a chickadee’s song brings. I want them to pull into my driveway not to ask for directions to their Airbnb, but to ask what kind of bird that is or what species of tree makes the red leaves (it’s the Red Maple). I want them to want to know this place apart from it’s over-photographed vistas and old red buildings and colonial traditions.
I suppose it’s okay if they disrupt traffic patterns to take a cliche photograph now and then. I just want them to see what they’re looking at.