By Seth Boyes,
There were a few years in my career when I dressed up my weekly opinion column in a sort of costume ahead of Halloween each year, changing my style of writing to masquerade as a well-known author. I presented myself to readers as Dr. Seuss that first year, while taking on the subject of group think. It was Stan Lee discussing the influence of social media platforms the next year. I believe the following year my column was printed in the trappings of Edgar Allen Poe, sharing some thoughts on a then-pending government shutdown. And then the next year my column came in the guise of John Lennon and featured some farcical song lyrics about our collective desire to vote.
Well, obviously I didn’t do any of that this year. Frankly, I haven’t written a costumed column in several years, and it’s probably for the best. It takes a lot of mental energy to bring that kind of column together, and mental energy becomes an increasingly precious resource for me with each passing year. Aside from that, wrapping one’s thoughts in a costume of sorts doesn’t exactly fit one of the core purposes of local column work — letting readers get to know the writer.
In short, it’s probably better to lay things as bare as the trees are becoming this time of year.
One in my position could go on and bore you with the parallels between falling leaves and the importance of transparency in modern life, but I won’t. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar (thank goodness I never wrote a column as Freud).
Nonetheless, fall is a time when we can find beauty in the warmth of oranges, yellows and reds, rather than solely in the coolness of succulent green. It’s a span of time that somehow shows us value in times of transition. And it’s a season that often brings to mind scenes from my youth — creating an odd juxtaposition of things passing away and things returning from the past.
Autumn was the time in my life when I and my little red jacket had to stay out of the corn fields for a few weeks until they were laid bare. It was also the time when my brother and I would bound across those same bare fields, pluck the stubbled stalks from the rows and swing them at each other like medieval maces until we’d beaten every last granule of dirt which clung to their gnarly yet fragile roots.
It was the time of year when our family’s homemade afghan blankets were in high demand. We lived in a few different homes during my younger years, and none of them were known for being particularly warm in the fall and winter — that was more by choice than by design. To this day, a certain chill in the air still brings a sense of safety and belonging to my mind.
I associate the rhythm of feet padding through a warm pallet of leaves on a cold gray sidewalk with the uphill trek to grade school as much as I do the downhill rush from my college dorm to an early morning lecture.
Perhaps the true appeal of fall is its ability to cradle two halves of a divide as if they are whole.
For example, in penning this column, I can’t seem to rid my mind of a particular tableau from years ago. I’m not entirely sure it took place strictly within the calendar-based bounds of the fall, but it certainly holds that same atmosphere.
It was already dark when my father called my brother and I outside. We zipped on our jackets and headed toward the edge of the cornfield about 80 feet south of the house — it felt like a lot longer walk when we were that young. We followed dad to the burning barrel that stood on that side of the yard. Its warbling orange glow was the only light I can recall that night. I’m not sure when or how the tree limbs had come down, but there they were, stretched out in the grass a few yards from the barrel.
And then dad handed me a bow saw. It was perhaps the first time I was old enough to help dad with anything involving sharp tools.
I recall the blisters. I recall the burning fatigue in my arm and fingers as I struggled to put enough umph behind the seemingly cumbersome saw. I remember my frustration after being told we couldn’t stop until we were done — and neither my dad nor my brother seemed to be having any trouble cutting through what in retrospect were likely pretty thin branches.
My young mind held onto that memory for a long time, filing it under unreasonable parental demands. But it was refiled under the more appropriate heading of bonding experiences many years ago. As an adult — perhaps just entering the autumn years of my life — that moment indeed cradles the divide between frustrated fatigue and prefatory pride.
It wasn’t the last time I’d work side by side with my father, not nearly. But it now stands in my mind as the starting point for all those times that came later. The memory of that fall day forms a beautiful whole from two seemingly incompatible halves — my youthful discontent and my adult recognition of the fonder memories which would come in the years that followed.
And I hope the autumn air and the sounds of fall do the same for you, dear reader.
Agree with Seth? Think he’s got it completely backwards or he’s missed the point entirely? Let your voice be heard. Letters to the editor may be emailed to editor@decorahleader.com or dropped off at 110 Washington St. Suite 4 in Decorah.
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