Awaiting Autumn

The leaves swirled about as I drove home this afternoon.  I could just sense that a crisp breeze of crackling brown leaves was not far away.  Suddenly I was taken back to autumn evenings of years past.  My mother would pick me up from KinderCare and we would make a quick trip through the Rax drive-thru.  I would ride on the hump (i.e. console) of her Ford LTD and we would make the trip home.   This time with my mom was so special, and roast beef sandwiches haven’t tasted the same since those days.  This was highlight number one of my autumn days.  I remember watching the sky darken as we drove home, but I was not afraid.  You see, I knew that we would make a stop at Nanny & Pop’s house—highlight number two--before we rode the 30 yards to our own.  The carport light was on every night, for they knew that visitors were inevitable.  Nanny always used the carport, of course, so Mama would simply whip in behind the Caddy and I would rush inside.  Pop was always sitting either at the kitchen table or in his recliner awaiting Bob Howell’s 6 o’clock new broadcast.  The smell of the wood burning in their brick fireplace, combined with the neverending pans of cube steak and cornbread just radiated a warmth that combated the chilly evening air.  After Mama and I said our hellos to Nanny & Pop, I ran down their dark hallway (not before flipping on the light) to the back apartment where Dee Dee was waiting.  Dee Dee would be in her recliner, a small rust-colored recliner that somehow tilted just a bit forward.  She would be cross-stitching, crocheting, or cutting something with her pinking shears.  Sometimes, I would sneak up on her just to hear her startle.  Dee Dee was my Nanny’s mother, and at 80 years old, she was my very best friend and my favorite playmate.  She was quirky and funny, and always eager to talk with me.  Many of my childhood evenings were spent wearing a path down the hallway from Dee Dee’s chair to Pop’s chair.  I had a permanent seat with both of them.  On those perfect autumn evenings, Pop would make his short, two-step trips to the fireplace and stir the logs.  He would sometimes rest on the brick bench in front of the fireplace.  I was soon resting right beside him, anxiously awaiting a crackle from inside.  He used to let me burn paper.  Something about throwing single sheets of newspaper into the flames and watching them become wispy black flakes was invigorating, daring, and unique.  I was sure that no other child had that shared that privilege with their Pop.  After we ate supper, with my Nanny to my Pop’s right and me to his left, Pop would go out to fetch another log.  The warmth of the kitchen would be briefly interrupted by the swish of air through the screen door.  I could’ve sat by that screen door forever feeling the alternating swooshes of warm and cool air.  It was in these moments that I believed nothing bad could ever happen.  It was the perfect time of year, I was in the perfect place, and I had the perfect combination of people in hugging range.  There are times now, as an adult, that I long for that place.  I long for those people.  I have not found anything like those swishes, those smells, those sounds, and those hugs since then.  When life goes topsy turvy on me now, I take myself back to that time when all was right.  Sometimes, that helps.  Sometimes, it brings the tearful reminder that I will never have that again.  Always, I am reminded that, although life has changed, I’ll always have autumn.