Thursday, November 10, 2011
Fall. The crisp autumn air. The ringing of school bells. The thorns on the cacti turning colors.
I live in Phoenix. There's a picture that I have in my head that doesn't jive with the one outside my window, nor with my notions of what fall really means. I've experienced fall once. New England fall where the trees blaze in the color of fire but there's no smoke, only the vibrant oranges, reds and yellow. That was in 1998. I carry that fall in my heart along with every photograph and image I've ever seen of the way Autumn is supposed to be.
I've grafted it on my memories of growing up in the Valley of the Sun. And even as I walk across the park with brown grass crunching underfoot, squashed olives dotting the sidewalk like freckles, and branches decked in greenery, I imagine fall. The thought filled my head like glitter-twinkling, sparkling and fleeting.
So this last week, I kidnapped my husband and drove up where fall resides in Arizona--in the canyons of Sedona. Alas, the place was packed with others who had the same quest. Eventually, we did stop to shiver and take in the views. Then we went out to lunch and warmed up.
The fall I've created in my head requires far fewer layers. And my husband screams when I put my cold hands on his belly. So it's quieter too.
Posted by Linda Andrews at 12:01 AM