The name — of it — is “Autumn” —
The hue — of it — is Blood —
An Artery — upon the Hill —
A Vein — along the Road —
Great Globules — in the Alleys —
And Oh, the Shower of Stain —
When Winds — upset the Basin —
And spill the Scarlet Rain —
It sprinkles Bonnets — far below —
It gathers ruddy Pools —
Then — eddies like a Rose — away —
Upon Vermilion Wheels —
Emily Dickinson, The Name – of it – is “Autumn”
Yesterday, I drove along the river road by myself, on my way to lunch with a friend in a pub located in a nearby town. I drove there through a soft, mistily-insistent rainfall – the sort of early autumn rain that amiably seeks to warn of the more dense, determined rains which will prevail at November’s end; the more dense, determined, relentless rains that will seek to strip the last of the stubborn leaves from the nearly denuded trees that this, their more gentle cousin, could not convince to fall. However frail this rain may prove to have been by comparison, it was strong enough to make my tires hiss along in time with the windshield wipers and to cause occasional percussive taps on my roof whenever I drove under one of the giant maples that line much of the road.
The ground was saturated, so much so that pools had formed along the wayside as if to threaten the road’s very existence. I saw at least one yellow-diamond sign warning of water over the roadway ahead, only to discover that the water’s incursion was minimal – nothing more than a small, smiling curve hesitantly emerging from the verge, looking as if it, too, was laughing at a bad joke played by a county road worker with too little to do and too much time in which to do it.
But some of the pools lying alongside the roadway were substantial – large enough to reflect hazy upside-down horizons distorted by ripples from the falling rain. They weren’t yet large enough to join together in flood, but big enough to remind us that Nature plays by its own rules, not ours; big enough to be things of beauty despite their inherent threat. They lay along the valley floor like pearls, casting a collective charm by means of which they hoped to appear as antonymic lily pads on an earthen pond rather than the fertile seeds of future flooding.
The road itself gleamed from an ongoing application of daylight and rain which made it as much a thing of beauty as utility. It arrowed through the heart of the day, pointing the way to my destination as if lit from within. And while I knew my way there by heart – having made the same trip so many times by myself or in the company of my family – its tar-shine facilitated my travels as well as my mood, for, whether you are coming or going, nothing is more evocative of home than a ribbon of wet highway connecting you to it.
Any gloom the day might have had was dispersed by the intense colors of autumn. While some of the trees along the way were nearly bare, most were still covered in the yellows and russets common to the season in Humptulips County. Bright, translucent reds would occasionally reveal themselves in all of their glory, but only after first having danced seductively behind screens of hedge or tree in order to heighten and titillate expectations as if fan dancers at a burlesque show. The ubiquity of fall’s colors erased whatever chill the day possessed, granting to everyone enjoying the day the first seasonal joy of a cherished item of fall clothing – in my case, a light, supple, hip-length jacket given to me by Helen as a birthday present many years ago, beloved because of the contrast between the cool hand of its silk lining and the warmth of its sueded leather.
Even in those places where the trees were already bare, color lurked. A dusty red paste ground from leaves of all colors by the alchemy of decay, traffic, time, and rain lined the road, its depth and breadth dependent upon the amount of traffic borne by the portion of the road I was then traveling, the particular topography of that stretch of road, the churn and spill of the fallen rains, and the breath and reach of the prevailing winds. My pleasure was taken from the day’s details.
After such a trip – a trip through memories as well as present time – my luncheon was bound to be a success. And so it was. It featured two old companions in arms, one already retired from the legal wars and the other soon to be, both full of shared and unshared memories and possessing enough wit and wisdom to know whether to relate or withhold those that weren’t. And when we emerged from the fog of our conversation and the comfort of the pub, the rain stopped just long enough for each of us to find our way to our respective vehicles.
Then it began again in order to grace my way home.
