I recently spent several weeks on a sort-of working vacation in central Florida. While there, I noticed many cars sporting stickers that said “Salt Life” in a jaunty font.
Salt life.
Just two words, but the phrase somehow vividly evokes a whole philosophy.
It brings up the image of a deeply tanned, aging hippie in flip-flops and a tank top, long hair streaked by the sun as he eats fresh-caught fish in a tiny beachside cantina.
Sea air, exotic finds on the beach, a devil-may-care attitude – I envied those Salt Lifers. I wished I could have a lifestyle so readily identifiable, so iconic.
Then I came home to fall in the Midwest and realized I do.
There’s a whole culture of seasons that those who live in paradise miss out on completely.
I am not sure what we should say on our stickers. Somehow “Leaf Raking Life” or “Stock Up on Antifreeze Life” don’t exactly convey the same carefree message theirs does.
But, catchy motto or no, there’s no denying that fall in Missouri can be spectacular.
There’s no sky as blue as an October fall sky, with the sunlight blazing down through a molten gold maple tree. There’s no sea air that can smell quite as invigorating as the wood smoke from a weekend bonfire.
No dainty shrimp cocktail can compare with a heaping plate of chicken and dumplings, cooked the old-fashioned way by ladies in aprons and served in a church basement redolent of cinnamon from the homemade pies on offer for dessert.
At those same dinners, held in fall-decorated churches and halls, you get the opportunity to chat with neighbors you haven’t seen up-close for months but whom you know would absolutely have your back if you needed to borrow a chain saw sharpener or a book on small engine repair or a bit of sourdough starter.
I’ve spent many hours walking along the beach, searching for elusive, delicate seashells. And I’ve been lucky enough to find some lovely ones, which I am proud to have on display.
But real luck here in the Midwest is taking an early-morning walk in the woods and chancing upon an example of the fantastic and ephemeral “frost flowers” that only grow in this climate, at this time of year, under very specific conditions.
And what the heck would people be doing tromping around the woods at dawn, anyway?
Two words, spoken with reverence in these parts:
Deer season.
Camouflage and blaze orange are the fall uniforms here, much like the ubiquitous sunglasses and shorts at the beach. Families plan their vacations around hunting trips that provide not only camaraderie for the grownups but rites of passage for the young people and the reassurance of a full freezer for everyone.
Beachcombers have their rituals: Waxing the surfboard, consulting the tide charts, slathering on the sunscreen.
Rituals here take the form of carefully winterizing the lawn and garden equipment, after taking one final lap around the grounds with the mower. We carefully clean and store the kiddie pool, the lawn chair cushions, the picnic umbrella. And we’re not alone. Our rituals are closely aligned with those of our animal neighbors: Fattening up, battening down, gathering in, getting ready for the long season of dark and cold and quiet.
Those Salt Life people don’t understand, the way we do on a deep and visceral level, the meaning of the word “cozy.”
At my childhood home, somewhat isolated and backing onto the woods, we children took turns every evening after dinner taking a pail of refuse out to the far end of the yard where the burn barrel sat. Although it was only probably about 40 yards or so, that was a long and scary trip for an 8-year-old. I vividly remember scurrying out into the darkness, pail in hand, my heart hammering in my chest and each anxious breath puffing out into the night air.
I’d empty my pail as quickly as possible and turn for the house, the warm light spilling from its windows promising safety from monsters. I’d be able to walk (OK, walk quickly – but not scurry, alright?) on the way back, knowing there was a fire in the fireplace and something good on TV and maybe popcorn later.
Our culture of seasons may not be romanticized the way seaside culture is, but I love it. I love the crunch of leaves underfoot. I love the spidery tracing of frost on my windshield so light that it burns off with only my breath. I love the smell of wood chips and sawdust in the spot where we split logs for the woodstove. I love the rattle of wind through a field of corn shocks and the comforting bulk of stacks of hay bales waiting to go in the barn.
Just the other day, for the first time this season, I got up and put on jeans, boots and a flannel shirt, and it felt like my native costume. It felt like home.
Never mind that we don’t know whether to design a Halloween costume to be worn over a bathing suit or a parka.
Never mind that it’s common to go from running the furnace to the air conditioner and back again in a single day.
Never mind that we face months of miserably gray, windy, cold, relentlessly depressing days until those first crocuses poke their heads up.
Never mind all that. Today it’s glorious fall in the Midwest, and it’s my best season.
