Fall-ing

Thu, 09/26/2024 - 10:13

So much in my garden is still green even though the fall equinox has come and gone. Usually by this time I would have fall decorations out, in anticipation of one of our favorite holidays, and as the kickoff to all other fall celebrations. But not this year. Today may be the day I dig out the countdown black cat, the various pumpkins made of papier mache or ceramic, and the orange twinkle lights. Maybe I will pull out the crepe paper flowers.

I’ve been thinking about another kind of fall today, for some reason. Maybe because fall is a season for kids, and the fall I’m thinking of took me right back into my childhood. Wham. And I was there.

I was doing some graden assessment a few summers back, watering a few dry plants, and clipping the odd branch, when my foot caught on the hose and suddenly I was face down on the grass. The fall did not hurt, it was cushioned by soft ground and springy grass. I was bombarded by the aroma of grass and damp earth, and suddenly I was a kid again, on my stomach, looking for tiny flowers or lady bugs, whatever life I could find down among blades of grass that couldn’t be seen without being on your belly. I took a few minutes to just be there. Well, what else could I do? A plan for getting up needed to come together before I could think about trying to get back on my feet. It was regenerating, really, that fall, a time machine experience, and those are rare. I was three, five, or maybe six again, my senses sharp, unafraid. Everything seemed possible.

Eventually I crawled, like a baby, towards a garden chair, and hoisted my bottom onto the seat. I was back in the present. I sat there for a moment and savored what had just happened, found myself laughing, and so grateful for that unexpected face plant. Sometimes I guess that’s just the kind of plant one needs in one’s garden; a very close encounter with nature, one that takes your breath away. I do treasure that memory.

So now I think I will do a little decorating, having savored that memory of a distant summer, and so many distant summers before that one. It’s time now. Don’t you think?