There aren’t many things that call an East Coast native home like longing for the fall. I spent a good many years, while married to my ex-husband, desperately trying to flee New York and her dreaded winters–the ones that seemed to go on indefinitely. Not the days with big fluffy snowflakes that I could catch with my tongue, or the evenings with steaming cups of hot cocoa after an afternoon of snow-saucer racing down the big hill with the kids, but the weeks of grey skies, leafless brown trees, and endless stretches of dead lawns playing to a backdrop of neutral-colored ranch houses, dumb with the silence of nothingness.
Springs weren’t much better. Long after the little purple and yellow crocus had popped its head through the snow and tricked us into believing that warm weather was approaching, hefty coats were still being worn by the little ones for outdoor play and we parents were still sitting on the soccer sidelines wrapped in wool blankets as we cheered on our pee-wee all-stars. The wood-burning stove that was such a comfort in the winter, a source of fond memories that would be recounted countless times decades down the road, was now a source of dread – the cleaning of ash just one more burden to bear. I would spend hours just staring out the window of my richly colored living room (a popular trend at the time – likely designed to infuse life into the otherwise monotonous surroundings of suburban living), nose pressed to the cold glass, dreaming of a tropical get-away.
And then came the divorce. And along with it a license to leave. No sooner were the papers stamped and embossed with the formality of the county court’s approval, did I have tickets in hand and whisk the kids off to our new home in Hawaii. Living here is everything that most people imagine – day after countless day of blue skies, put to rest each evening with the golden-coral glow of a setting sun over the watery horizon; afternoon romps at the beach where the kids squeeze in a few quick surf runs before dinner; tiger’s blood shave ice[1] to cool down in the middle of January. Living here is everything I had dreamed of on those cold, grey spring mornings with my nose pressed to the frosty window pane and I’ve never suffered a moment of regret for coming here. But there is one thing that I miss (if only ever so often). Fall. Autumn. The smell of freshly fallen leaves layered on top of older ones that have already started to decay. The smell of damp coolness that fills the air and has the power to transport me to simpler times and high school football games – when the most complicated decision I had to make was whether to wear shorts with a sweatshirt or jeans with a t-shirt.
After the years of being away, even with eyes scrunched up tight, with all my energy focused on remembering, it can be hard to bring that smell truly back to life. Here in paradise, there aren’t many opportunities to find an olfactory trigger. But once in a while, there’ll be something that brings me back to those perfect fall days of my memories – the scratching of a dried palm frond blown by the trade winds in a playful jaunt down the road, or the crunching dried leaves and fallen pillowy pine needles under my feet during one of my infrequent visits upcountry.[2] It’s during these moments that I can’t resist the urge to bend down and grab the dried bit of flora that rests at my feet. To crunch it in my palm. To emotionally reconnect with that time of year that represents the death stage of the cycle-of-life, but somehow invigorates even the most casual of observers into wanting to take up jogging.
As I crumble the little dried leaf into an earthy powder I float back in time. Ten years – new motherhood; staged pumpkin patch pictures; trick-or-treating with a stroller. Twenty years – frisbee challenges and hacky sack games on the campus common; beer stained sweatshirts at Octoberfest; a ride through the mountains on the back of a motorcycle with a guy I barely know (100 mph… 115… 125) fear and exhilaration all wrapped up in one. Twenty-five years – high-school sweetheart running plays on the home field; and after the game the smell of sweat, dirt, and goose shit a sweet drunken mixture of love and foolhardiness. Thirty years – playgrounds and tetherball. Thirty-five years – a dear aunt who used to give me bubble baths and sleepovers and paint my nails red even though my parents hated it. And died too young. The memories ebb and flow, leaving as quickly as I can call them into play. I will myself to hang on, but it’s too late. The smell of eucalyptus – I’m back upcountry. I see the shiny, multi-colored bark and think of how it reminds me of a child’s painting… An opportunity for another trip down memory lane – another day.
[1] Shave Ice is the islands’ variation of the traditional “snow cone”. Tiger’s Blood is a unique syrupy blend of fruity strawberry and watermelon mixed with a hint of coconut that flavors the mound of ice shavings. This island-favorite blend results in a tropically-flavored treat that compliments the mound of sunset-colored coolness.
[2] Upcountry is the local term here on Maui for the towns that reside up in the mountains. The air is cooler in these areas, there is more moisture, and thicker vegetation supported by the rainy mountain climate lends itself to a feeling of country-living.
