My photography skills have only improved since I was a freshman in college–by which I mean that I take far fewer photos now than I did then.
I cannot shake the sneaking suspicion that winter is going to wallop me from behind; one day, I will wake up and the world will be cold, trapped in a blue-gray haze, and hidden under a sheen of frost. My suspicions come from a lack of autumn.
I do not know what the good people of Virginia call this season, but it is not autumn. The trees are still green, even though their leaves begin to litter the ground. The air is warm and inviting, not dry and crisp. I’m sitting on my balcony–sockless, in a tank top and yoga pants. There is not a jacket nor a scarf to be seen. I drank some sparkling pumpkin spice cider the other night and it tasted… wrong. There’s an unopen gallon of apple cider in the back of my fridge. An ice cream truck just passed my apartment!
October air should hold the promise of coming hibernation in its cool air and the brightly lit trees that show the last moment of nature’s wakefulness. It shouldn’t feel like summer has barely begun to die. What is this season? Surely it cannot be autumn.
I’m wishing for fall, you see, because–though the world is falling asleep–fall brings new beginnings, especially for children. New school year, new athletic rotation, new holiday celebrations; with these come new gifts, new friends, and new things to learn. New memories are made during autumn. Some of my favorite memories were made during autumn.
My sisters and I used to go into the woods after school and pretend we were the Boxcar Children. New England’s boulders furnished us with boxcars and make-believe hideaways aplenty before the poison ivy and pressures of life took over. (We’d even imagined a makeshift refrigerator for pilfered milk in the cleft of a rock. No water kept it cool in reality, but we saw what could be.) One by one, the woods no longer captivated us. The rocks and trees lost their wonder. And the Boxcar Children, such as we were, have faded into memory.
My mother used to decorate the house for fall, though I don’t know if she has this year. I’m not talking about Halloween or Thanksgiving, although she has those too. My mother decked the house out in pumpkins and gourds, colored leaves and friendly scarecrows–and let’s not forget the fall-scented candles. I used to walk home from the bus stop, shuffling my feet through fallen leaves whose colors were still fading, then pass through a front door with a happy fall wreath on (I’d slam through it with my shoulder because it was too heavy for my arms), and enter a home of warm colors and smells. Even on my loneliest days, coming through the door meant comfort. Even when the two-inch-high scarecrow tableau felt like my only friend, the reds and oranges of fall made me feel warm.
My first season of color guard.
My first color guard
I found my niche in the fall of my sophomore year of high school. Even if I didn’t make my very best friends in that color guard, it gave me a thing–a thing that I was good at, a place where I could belong, and activity that was social and kept me moving. Even the hardest practices, the ones that ended with angry instructors, felt right. I belonged on that field, with a flag or a saber in my hand. I was meant for this. I didn’t mind the late nights and numb fingers, bus rides and petty spats. I was there to spin. It may seem strange or silly, but I still love it seven years later. I’d train and compete on my own, if I was good enough; I’d teach, given the opportunity.
One of my college color guard shows. I believe credit for this photo belongs to Rob Jinks Photography.
I fell into some of my best friends in the autumn. I was wandering and happened upon the very friends who named me. They invited me in to watch a B-list horror film about “a tire who falls in love with a girl and kills people!” I watched, and they told me to stay. What followed was my favorite semester of college, full of movies and laughter, antics, hi-jinx, and journals full of quotable moments. I became a Twirl in the autumn, and she is my favorite version of myself.
Remember these guys?
The same friends gave me my Purps in the fall. Noodles’ story of how he’d asked her out was useless, so I had to ask her, even though we didn’t know each other very well. She worked in the library, and I happened upon her at the circulation desk. I expected her to think I was crazy when I asked for her version of the story (with little prelude). To my surprise, she flew around the table and hugged me! The next fall, we were roommates.
This is Purps being adorable while she gets ready for my wedding. I love her. Photo: Annmarie Swift Photography 2014
I had to.
And now we come to Grover. It seems like a poor excuse to tell our story, but I only mention it because it’s pertinent. It was really his older brother’s fault. I lived just over a mile from campus at that time, and Crazy wouldn’t stand for me walking myself home after dark. I had no one else, so he gallantly volunteered. I resisted, but he was more stubborn than me, in the end. Nearly every time he walked me home, Crazy would say, “You know, Grover is single.” This forced me to reply that I was off dating or that he’d never like me like that or that I’d love to go on one date if he would ask me. Plus, I would point out, he liked another girl; he told me so all the time, even asked me for advice about her. She didn’t like him–barely even saw him–but guys rarely changed their mind about this particular female. I had no shot. We made better friends, anyways.
And we were good friends. That September, we were practically inseparable. We liked the same music, used the same pens, were in the same level courses, and were friends with the same people. He liked Jane Austen, and I was an English major. I even met his family at Homecoming. When anyone asked if I liked him, I said “not yet,” leaving me as the only one surprised when I finally figured out that I’d liked him for ages and was actually crazy jealous of that girl he kept talking about–not that I’d ever tell him to stop.
I’m not sure how Grover transitioned from thinking I was “weird” to being alright with dating me. I suspect two of his brothers (Crazy and Swole) had something to do with it. At any rate, it was early November when we went on our first date.
I woke up that morning convinced I was insane. I hadn’t dated since high school, and every other guy I’d liked during college had run for the hills without a single date. But that was all this was destined to be, after all: One Date. Singular. We’d agreed. No commitments, no expectations–just one coffee.
I dressed in an outfit he’d never seen and did my makeup properly for once. Just before leaving my apartment, I slipped my leather jacket on for confidence. Today was the day. A real big-kid date.
This is the first known picture of Grover and I together. It’s not from our first date; the first time I went to his family’s house, his sister insisted that we take a photo. I didn’t understand at the time. Now that we’re married, I think I do.
All morning, I tried to convince myself that it would be okay with me if he changed his mind. There was still the other girl, after all, and–maybe I wasn’t really ready. Maybe this was a stupid idea. I was supposed to graduate single and live in a loft in the city for a year–just me, alone–to pursue my writing career. I shouldn’t be dating. That was crazy talk.
But then Grover ate lunch with me and my friends. The food staff were worried by how little I ate that day. I blushed, but the dark butterflies went away. I wanted to date him–I was going on a date with him!
The air was cool and sharp as we walked to the coffeeshop. Stock conversation passed between us, but I was too busy with my feet to notice. I’d nearly made it to the door when Grover said, “You know I’m paying for you, right?”
I stammered for a moment before my sleeve snagged on an almost-bare decorative bush. I yanked it free, failing to catch one last deep breath of the autumn air.
I say all this to illustrate and come back to my original question:
What’s the point of it all if there’s no autumn in October?
Where am I to find my new beginnings now? I never knew my love for autumn until I lived in a place where she never visits. Give me colored leaves, crisp air, and amaretto lattes. I’m ready to transition out of summer. Bring me autumn.
Confessions of a Twirl 