I suppose those maps you see in the newspapers and online showing areas of “peak leaf color” serve a purpose. But anyone who spends a lot of time outdoors is likely to notice that the show begins in early September and goes on for several months. By early November the basswood tree in our front yard is bare while the silver maple out back is still green, though it’s looking a little pale. The branches of the sugar maple nearby spread their brilliant—I would almost say buttery—yellow leaves above the garden. Meanwhile, the Norway maple that I can see from where I sit here at the computer is kaput.
The concept of “peak” color begins to sound misleading and
even misguided.
I’ve raked the front yard three or four times by now. It’s an excuse to get out into the cool and marvelous afternoons, and say hi to a few passing dogwalkers perhaps. Besides, our weekly yard waste pickups run 'til Thanksgiving. That bin can’t handle everything, but it helps.
I am amused repeatedly by the fact that if I rake half of
the yard one day, the next day the leaves will once again be distributed evenly
over the entire expanse. How can that be? As I rake, I ponder whether the
effort of raking lightly three or four times is equivalent to the effort that would be required to rake
the entire yard only once after all the trees are bare. I’m not terribly
interested in the answer to this question, however. The best time to
rake is when you feel like raking.
I have also been in the habit of grinding up the leaves with
a lawn mower. They say it’s good for the grass.
* * *
Whatever else it may be, autumn is peak walking season. Fresh cool air, low sun, few birds. And yes, the color. Grabbing the fading light while we can, then home to a fire in the fireplace, perhaps. It’s the same cozy, and perhaps slightly melancholy, feeling, year after year.
The biologist Rene Dubos explains:
On the one hand, the external manifestations of human existence change continuously and at an increasing rate under the influence of social and technological innovations. On the other hand, man’s anatomical structures, physiological processes, and psychological urges remain in phase with the cosmic conditions that prevailed when Homo sapiens acquired his biological identity.
Though we may live in cities, in other words, we respond to
changes in our environment the same way the Neanderthals did. Nor, in Dubos’s
view, are our seasonal moods driven entirely by changes in light.
The behavioral patterns associated with the seasons cannot entirely be accounted for by changes in temperature or in the luminosity of sky. They have their seat in the genetic constitution and originate from a time in the evolutionary past when man lived in such direct contact with nature that he could survive only if his bodily functions and his mental responses were precisely geared to the seasonal rhythms of nature and the availability of resources.
I don’t see how genetics can entirely account for the
immediate emotional impact of mercurial fluctuations in air pressure, cloud
cover, temperature, or light, however. When I step out onto the deck on a cool
autumn morning, sights, sounds, and smells that weren’t there even a few days
ago incite me to rhapsodize. Low light, frost on the deck, dew in the long pale grass, and the
chrysanthemums, which the Chinese associate with the beauty and melancholy of
the season:
I remember, when I was young,
How easily my mood changed from sad to gay.
If I saw wine, no matter the season,
Before I drank it, my heart was already glad.
But now that age comes,
A moment of joy is harder and harder to get.
And always I fear that when I am quite old
The strongest liquor will leave me comfortless.
Therefore I ask you, late chrysanthemum-flower,
At this sad season why do you bloom alone?
Though well I know that it was not for my sake,
Taught by you, for a while I will open my face.
—Po Chü-i, (812)
The penultimate line of this little gem, in which the poet
acknowledges the radical separation between his fate and the ebb and flow of his circumstances, seals its modest beauty.
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