The White Noise of Autumn

There’s something about autumn that makes me feel alive. I assume this puts me in the minority, though I have no statistics to back this up. I imagine most people cite spring as the time they feel renewed. They list every clichéd thing about the season traditionally known for rebirth and new beginnings: the weather warming up; flowers blooming; those first, intrepid blades of grass peeking out from soil that has just begun to thaw. I cannot ignore the simple beauty of those things; they’re a reminder that, no matter how long, dark, and difficult the winter, Nature herself has reawakened to claim the earth. These sensory changes that accompany the transition from cold to warmth, from long, bleak nights to slow, warm days, are perhaps even better markers of the cyclical nature of our existence than are diagonal lines slashed through calendar days, and the holidays and annual rituals we’ve created to root our place in time.

And yet, as cozy as all that sounds, I’ve always found that I awaken in the fall. For me, the novelty and simple beauty of a tiny pink bud venturing to open itself on the branch of a tree has never quite matched the sight of a street lined with trees whose red, yellow, and orange leaves create a Technicolor canopy unrivaled at any other time of year. I’ve always preferred bold, deep colors to washed-out pastels, so maybe that’s why the dark, insistent shades of fall speak to me more than the pinks, lavenders, and butter yellows of spring.

Even supermarkets offer a feast for the eyes in fall. Eye-catching displays of red and pink foil-wrapped candy at Valentine’s Day are trivial compared to bright orange pumpkins arranged casually on bales of yellow and brown straw. Sweet temptations covered in every shade of red and green for Christmas don’t hold a candle to impossibly shiny, perfectly formed Red Delicious apples, on display next to rich, sweet, buttery caramels, reminding shoppers to combine the two into a classic fall treat. Even the cheerful Easter displays, complete with pastel colored eggs, white bunnies with pink ears, and baskets padded with cellophane Easter grass in bright colors Mother Nature never intended, pale in comparison to rugged, weathered, wooden barrels filled with decorative gourds in astounding shapes and colors. (At least, they look rugged and weathered. No doubt they’re mass produced for just such a purpose, but commercialism is a topic for another time. Right now, I’m talking about autumn, and I will not be stopped!) Round, oblong, asymmetrical. Some with smooth, shiny skin, others rough and knobby. White, green, yellow, orange, sometimes all four. Some striped, some solid, some that look like Nature’s try at abstract painting.

As addictive as those colors and shapes are to my eyes, my love of autumn comes as much from the smells as from the sights. There’s a distinct change in the air at the border between September and October. The air starts getting cooler, and though the days are often still warm—sometimes hot, even—the nights are chilly. Not cold. Not uncomfortable. Just cool enough to warrant a fuzzy, boxy sweatshirt while you sit on your back porch and wrap your hands around a cup of spiced cider or mulled wine, look up at the stars and try to spot Orion, whose first appearances in the wee hours herald the colder weather and longer nights to come.

I don’t know if the temperature drop has anything to do with the uniquely invigorating smell in the autumn air, but I’ve always taken the two hand in hand. The distinct, smoky smell streaming from distant fireplaces is surely part of it, but I grew up in New York City, where very few homes had the luxury of a fireplace, so I doubt this is the sole ingredient. Maybe the chemical reactions taking place in the leaves themselves, as they shift from green to the array of other colors, is part of it. Maybe it even has something to do with where the earth is in its revolution around the sun when it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere. Maybe someone set out a few unfathomably enormous bowls of potpourri in this particular neighborhood of the solar system. Or maybe I just love so much the foods that are traditional this time of year, that I imagine their aromas into existence, even when they’re not being prepared right under my nose.

Whatever the pinches of this and dashes of that that blend so seamlessly into what I call the smell of October, they only come together this time of year. People who prefer spring might claim the warm sun on their face is what makes them feel renewed, or that birds singing as they fly from branch to branch remind them that there’s a world out there, and it’s much, much bigger than the daily grind. I don’t dispute that these things are at once empowering and humbling, and fill those who experience them with a clearer sense of purpose. For me, though, a long, slow, deep breath of October evening air is better than any thrill, any runner’s high, and any endorphin rush, for making me believe I can do it. Do what? Anything. Anything I dream, anything I want, anything I work for, because this is October, and this is when things happen.

Crisp is a word we use to describe everything from potato chips to starched laundry, from military salutes, to the final bars of a symphony, to the perfect landing in a gymnastics maneuver. Crisp lends itself easily to physical movement, sound, and the sensation of touch. Smells can be crisp, too, but not all of them. The smell of brownies baking is delicious, but not crisp. It’s warm, comforting, and even pacifying. Can you imagine anyone arguing about anything—except maybe who gets to lick the batter off the spoon—when there are brownies baking nearby, and the smell of rich, fudgy chocolate fills the air? (Perhaps we should have “brownie smell” pumped into the ventilation systems at the U.N. and in the Capitol Building. Considering all the hot air that already fills those places, what’s a little more, especially if it smells like dark chocolate? I’m not sure, but I may have just come up with the key to world peace.) The smell of the air after a rainstorm is muted. It’s not crisp, it’s quiet. It’s slow. Heavy and lethargic with the weight of the moisture still surrounding everything, as if the intensity of the entire world has been turned down. The smell of an old flame’s cologne or perfume is heady and deep, alive with memories of times both better and worse. It causes you to revisit those moments, to take your time and slowly swim through the milieu of people and places that inhabited that era. It’s anything but crisp. The smell of October, however, is crisp.

The smell of a chilly October evening is invigorating. It cuts right through you. Leaves you no time to wander through the past, taking a leisurely stroll along the paths you’ve forged, stopping to ponder sculptures of who you used to be. The smell of October allows for nothing but unbridled possibility. Maybe this rejuvenation is hard-wired in me. Maybe, somewhere deeply embedded in my DNA, is the knowledge that it’s harvest time, and this is when the world turns wonderful.

The smell of October has a unique ability to revive the spirits of those who spent the spring dreading the heat and humidity summer would bring as each day got warmer than the one before, and who spent the summer waiting for said heat and humidity to fade. For those of us who prefer cooler weather, the smell of October is to our psyches what the sights of spring are to others: a sign that we’ve made it through. That our time is upon us. That lemonade, bathing suits, and trips to the beach have given way to apple cider, sweaters, and cold Sunday mornings spent pajama-clad, lingering over newspapers and magazines.

I’ve always liked cold weather. Not the relentless, bone-chilling cold that makes your eyes water and leads you to question why humankind ever left the temperate zones, but the dry chill that wakes you up and makes you want to take a deep breath and go do something out of character. I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t related, in large part, to the poor body image that has plagued me throughout my life as a young woman in the western world. Cold weather means bulky sweaters and sensible shoes. Banished to a storage trunk are sleeveless tops, shorts, Capri pants, mini-dresses, and that most dreaded of the dreaded, the bathing suit. Exiled to the back of the closet are flimsy sandals and even flimsier flip-flops. (When, by the way, did the latter become acceptable footwear in public? Never, that’s when. If you’re in violation of this policy, stop. Yesterday.)

Cold weather means sheathing myself in layers, and blissfully covering every inch of arm and leg that was painfully exposed during summer. It also means a return to the classic fall clothing colors, which tend to flatter both my facial features and my body better than the bright, happy yellows, pinks, mint greens, and powder blues designers seem so fond of for the warmer months. October brings with it the dark, royal shades of burgundy, plum, hunter green, and burnt-orange, along with the black, charcoal gray, and navy blue every woman knows are slimming.

More important than my favorite type and color of clothing, however, fall brings with it my favorite foods. Despite the fact that pumpkin is available all year long—albeit only in cans in late winter, spring, and summer—very few people seem to realize this amazing ingredient can be used in things other than pumpkin pie. I love pumpkin pie, and would never dismiss such an integral part of American holiday cuisine, but it is far from the only delivery mechanism for this wonder food’s incredible taste, not to mention impressive amounts of fiber and vitamin A. Fall in general, and Thanksgiving, in particular, are when pumpkin recipes appear in magazines, on television, and in seasonal cookbooks. They range from the sweet—cookies, cheesecakes, and breads—to the savory—pureed in soups, mashed with sweet potatoes, and roasted with root vegetables. I have never understood why so few people take advantage of this amazing orange squash during the rest of the year. Perhaps people don’t realize it’s available in a form that doesn’t require you to buy one, lug it home, cut it open—which is a workout—scoop out the seeds, and then first cut it up or roast it. At that rate, I can’t blame them for steering clear most of the year, but canned pumpkin is a true gem.

Pumpkin is, of course, only the beginning. There’s a whole world of other ingredients that, like pumpkin, are available year-round, but seem to get their due only around the fall and winter holidays. Cinnamon, clove, ginger, and nutmeg can be found in supermarket spice aisles all year long, but are sadly underappreciated until it’s time for apple crisps and pumpkin pies. These spices create an autumn smell that is entirely different from—but no less invigorating than—the smell of October.

Fall has unique sights, smells, and tastes. Last, but certainly not least, are its sounds. Breezes blow throughout the year, but only in fall do they rustle leaves that are beginning to dry out, creating that scratchy sound that can only be described as muted maracas in the music fueling the dance between the air and the trees. Only in fall can you hear the crackling and crunching underfoot of leaves that, having finished their summer performance, fell to the ground in a final curtain call. Only in fall do the dried leaves skip across sidewalks and streets, making a sandpapery sound that is staccato, precise, and, of course, crisp. On a clear fall night, you can see the three stars that make up the unmistakable belt of Orion, the hunter, and Canis Major, his dog, identifiable by Sirius, the brightest star in the winter sky. There are times when it’s so dark and so quiet you swear you can hear the stars twinkling.

This is the quiet symphony that underpins the season. The miracle that gets overlooked because of its ubiquity, like the scraping of snow shovels against the ground in winter, like the grinding of lawnmower motors in spring, and like the cheerful, major-key-toned bells of ice cream trucks in summer. The soundtracks of other seasons accompany their own sights, smells, and tastes, and they’re all mesmerizing in their own ways. But until the very last leaf has fallen, and ice turns the bare tree branches into a crystalline dream world, I’ll sit out back in my cable knit sweater, with my hands wrapped around a warm mug of mulled apple cider, with my head tipped back to spot the constellations, while I take deep, generous breaths of the spicy, smoky fall air and listen to the white noise of autumn.