Autumn

I sat curled in an armchair in Café Barista, when the rains began to fall. Heavy grey drops of water bounced off the cement and formed puddles in the parking lot. The smell of wet, earthy rain wafted in from the open door. I let my book close on my lap and sat staring out at the rain shower. The loneliness birds, as described by Bryce Courtenay, sat uncomfortably by me, squawking hungrily for my memories of rainy days. This late September shower sent me instantly back to a quiet evening at the end of October two years before….

In Moscow, Idaho, I sat reading at a wooden table in One World Café. Soft, warm light lit the coffee shop and the permeating smell of freshly ground coffee filled my nose. I lifted my cup of steaming hot cider to my lips, inhaling the autumn smells of apples and cinnamon before I took a sip of the amber liquid.

At 5:00, the fall light had faded, leaving Main Street dark. The store and street lights illuminated pools of the dark, autumn street. Little children, dressed as ghosts, Spiderman, and princesses, marched along the streets. Their parents led them into the brightly colored shops to collect Halloween candies. At the counter, Deanna greeted the children gleefully and handed them a brightly colored sucker, while Gaby, in a witch hat, cackled at them. The parents and children smiled, said their thanks, and walked back out the door into the cold night.

I watched the parades of children walk by and remembered the fateful Halloween at the age of 8 in Cedar Rapids. Halloween in Iowa was always cold and rainy. That year, my cousin Emily visited from Minneapolis. For Halloween, she dressed as Snow White while I sported a white sheet fashioned as a ghost. Predictably it was pouring. Even the cheerful carved pumpkins we had on the porch glistened with the fat, wet drops from the storm. I remember poor Emily got soaked in her Snow White costume, while I, under my ghost sheet, stayed dry in my raincoat.

The sound of the espresso grinder pulled me back to Moscow 14 years later. I heard the raspy sound of dry maple leaves skittering across the ground as a light breeze picked up. The sidewalk was littered with yellow, red, orange, and brown maple leaves. Slowly, plop by plop and drop by drop, the rain began. It was always raining at the end of October in Moscow. As if the weather gods knew it was nearly Halloween, they summoned the rains. Cold and wet, the rain that soaks into your bones and into your very being began to fall melancholically from the sky.

Gavin, sitting at the next table, looked up at me and we both sighed inwardly, knowing the rains had come again to Moscow. The next day at the Farmer’s Market was bound to be a cold one. We watched the heavy drops fall determinately past the window. The leaves, now shining from the rain, began to smell of that organic earth, the magic smell of rain-mixed leaves. It was the smell that always reminded me of autumn. I breathed in the earthy smell, glad to be safely inside the coffee shop, but knowing I could avoid the inevitable only a little longer. The rains in Moscow never end. They continue on and on, breaking briefly before persisting to fall until an occasional snowfall or summer comes again.

I slowly drank the final remains of my now cold cider, feeling the thick, powerful taste of wet cinnamon fill my mouth. It was time to brave the rain. Shrugging on my raincoat and stepping out in the rain, I unlocked my soaking bicycle and turned on its headlight. Swiftly I mounted the blue Bianchi and began peddling the rain soaked streets towards home on Lily Street. That bone-chilling night finished with a hot shower, a movie, and more warm cider from our recent trip to the apple orchard. I felt safe and warm. I remember a broad smile crossing my face as I excitedly anticipated the prospect of pasties, pumpkin carving, and Halloween extravaganzas that Moscow’s rains brought with it.

Now, two years later, sitting in the quiet coffee shop on Vista Hermosa, I can feel the slow, sad smile that characterizes my loneliness cross my pale face. As I sat watching, the rain continued to fall on this September day, just as it did in my Moscow memory of two years prior. Would the rain bring the same treats as in Moscow? Would there be pumpkins to carve for Halloween? Cider to sip? Apple pie to eat?

I could feel the loneliness birds hopping around me, feeding off my memory of beloved fall in Moscow. Is it foolish of me to have such profound thoughts and feelings about this other place thousands of miles away? The grass is greener on the other side of the fence, they say. I’m sure nostalgia will overcome me when I leave Guatemala. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that my soul has grown older, wiser perhaps, since my last international hiatus. The feeling of home, of sense of place, of community is deeply bound in me. It is conceptualized in the golden wheat fields and distant forest-green mountains surrounding Moscow, Idaho.

Home. Home found in the brilliant fall colors and eternal rains of Moscow. Home realized in the cool nights and warm days of early autumn. Home felt in the first bite of pumpkin pie, the first sip of dark 1554, the first sight of the leaves true colors. Home discovered in the taste of freshly harvested honeycomb from Iowa. Home experienced by watching Dracula, Wallace and Gromit, and Frankenstein on Halloween night. Home witnessed with the powerful golden light of the sun slipping sleepily below the autumn horizon. Home so powerfully located with people, places, and the beautiful rituals we create to show the passing of seasons. For me, this deep, profound feeling is that of being and feeling and experiencing my favorite time of year. It is of knowing there are apples to pick, cider to press, pumpkins to cook down, pie to bake, and leaves to throw joyously in the air. My autumn, my Moscow, my home.

Happy autumn.