First Lessons in Fall

Mom, September 30, 1979:

“Today was just beautiful outside; it was in the 70’s. The leaves are changing colors. I don’t think there could have been a nicer day. The kids and I went to church this morning then we went to Hardees for lunch. When we got home we went for a walk back to the woods. The leaves are so pretty.”

I remember that afternoon as a kind of soft golden wash.

Church first—stiff clothes, the smell of hymnals and old ladies’ perfume, the familiar tension of wanting to be good but mostly wanting to be outside. Then Hardee’s, which meant:

Orange trays.
Crinkly burger wrappers.
The sense that this was a treat, not an everyday thing.

But the walk to the woods is what stayed.

The path ran north from the farmyard, along the cornfields and toward the tree line. In early fall, the air would be just cool enough that you could feel change on your skin, even if you didn’t know the word “transition” yet.

What my kid-brain logged:

The sound of leaves skittering along the lane.
The way Mom pointed out colors—“Look how that one’s almost red. See the yellow in that one?”
Helen, small and determined, shuffling through leaf piles that were almost up to her knees.

We didn’t talk about theology out there. No one explained the symbolism of dying leaves and resurrection. It was just: Look. Smell this. Hear that.

And yet, years later, when I got obsessed with seasonal living and wheel-of-the-year stuff, this is the kind of day I kept circling back to. The template was already there:

Church ritual → cheap lunch → woods as cathedral.
The sense that the real sermon was outside, in the color of the maples and the feel of the dirt lane under my sneakers.

Mom just wanted to get us some fresh air. She probably had a million worries rattling around—money, garden, shifts, gas prices creeping up. But she still took that walk, still named the beauty out loud.

That’s the part I try to carry forward: the willingness, even when tired, to say, “Let’s go see what the woods are doing today,” and call it enough.