THE FALL GUY

Autumn is barely three days old and I already feel the effects of the seasonal contract. 

As per our silent and binding agreement, my restless summer soul is being quietly toddler tucked beneath a duvet fluffed with a thousand fallen hero leaves which signal the beginning of the memory parade which features every other autumn that has marched before.

Memories and leaves are no different.  They are born with hope and nurtured by experience as they turn from the shy blush of youth to the soldier fading hues of ancient history.

When I was young I loved to burrow myself in the Van Gogh-like stacks of raked leaves and make arm-fluttering autumn angels while I watched the spirited burnt orange and red sky melt like a low flame pan of slowly fainting crayons.

I grew up in the concrete suburbs of Hollis, Queens, New York where we lived in a tiny citadel, the stronghold of blue-collar families which were as solid as the illusion that we had that we were just as strong as our red-bricked fortress.

No matter how cracked or deformed our secret, sorrowful hearts were, we stayed unified enough to pull off the appearance of civility. We lived by rituals, felt protected by the country, despised communism and sat like silent monks, bathed in the healing waters of the negatively charged electrodes of our Dumont console TV which seemed to enlighten us with the answers to all our deepest questions because everything was in black and white. You watched what you were told to watch.  You bought what you were told to buy.  That is why they call it programming.

Our apartment was small. Two bedrooms. One for my parents and one for my sister and I. It was like we lived in a permanent exhibit of the modern family which, had we been on display in an actual museum, most would pass us by en route to where the more interesting and wealthier people lived.

And yet we all somehow found our own, individual self- sustaining universes to live in. My sister chose rebellion, befriended equally frisky girls who all defiantly dated so not Jewish bad boys who I’m sure were the key ingredients of my parents’ most haunting nightmares.

My flag was planted early on in the lunar landscape of my most vivid imagination

By two or three I remember feeling that I was simply not properly equipped or resilient enough to live in this world and the only way to actively protect my tender heart was to hide it behind a massive wall of outsized fantasies and dreams.

I was escaping a modicum of abuse, which is for another story. It’s enough for you to know that I was often met with the business end of a snapping leather strap, which tattooed my back with bruises whenever I was prisoner uncooperative or worse when I showed any signs of independence.

To this day, for me, freedom is just another word for punishment.  Sadly I would say the same thing about my definition of love.(I tend to altruistically conspire against emotional progress as if it’s a political movement that simply has to be resisted at all costs.  And yet the when it comes to the affairs of the heartbroken heart, surrendering, usually perceived as weakness, ultimately is the only real strength that we have for a guaranteed way out.

As a child, I coped by eloping with the forces of make-believe where I could dress up as someone else and take flight like Mary Martin in Peter Pan.  That yearly broadcast, the one direct from Neverland, was more of a travelogue for me.  It was the number one place to visit on my bucket list, way before Paris or outer space.

I always felt so uniquely different that sometimes I felt like the only person that could possibly understand me was God, who seemed to live somewhere deep within the molecules of the air, in the sanctity of late afternoon shadows, and in the dust particles that whirled like a million unspun dervishes in the unpredictable sunlight.

What I loved about the seasons was that they always felt, upon their arrival, like direct messages from the almighty whose simple declaration, written in the wind, was “It’s time.”

Since most of our lives were defined by the struggles and challenges of mortal combat, it was lovely to suddenly have a decisive form of immortality magically arrive at our doorstep like the tiny vigilant milk bottles and the evening edition of the Long Island Press which completely got the word, “welcome” which was advertised on the broom scratchy doormat.

Of all the seasons that came and went through the stations of our lives, autumn has always meant the most to me and still does.

It feels more European than American, like an art house film which is going to take its sweet time in allowing the subtext out of the bag. My brain becomes more camera-like than during other seasons.  Every head tilt seems to welcome an image that I simply do not want to let go of.  Ever.

Autumn is the bridge between summer and winter.  Fun and games are over and it’s time to focus in on whatever life chores stand before us. It’s time to serious and to fortify. To prepare for what lies ahead.

Autumn smells miles of dusted cinnamon. Not the kind you whiff like Elmer’s glue at Pier One but the real deal. If you are very quiet you can hear a million and one, timers ring like tiny church bells as ovens give birth to the next baked pie as candles are lit in memory of things that were and will soon become.

Daylight becomes elderly fragile as if it’s aching for early retirement.  It’s suddenly sweater cool and wool feels welcoming and appropriate. The buoyant air is infused with a mixture of melancholy and a kind of tricks up your sleeve good humor, as Halloween begins to lurk like wry toddlers behind the premature lawn decorations that begin to sprout in bursts of whimsy that are all brought forth by grown-ups who yearn to be free.

Autumn is not the main feature, but more of a coming attraction.

Thanksgiving can be seen in the faint, far off distance, like an almost decipherable city skyline that you can trace with the tip of your finger, while Christmas acting like a bully, shoves its way past poor Halloween mostly at the insistence of shopping malls who are ready to ratchet up the air conditioning so it feels like the dead of winter so it can seduce you with fake Santa, fake snow and way too happy premature carols.

Best of all, autumn comes with built-in predictability which is something that I think we all desperately need, especially now.

In these days when anything that is even mildly dependable, traditional or cherished seems to suddenly be obliterated by the next assault of BREAKING NEWS, it is a comforting thing to know that just like our about to adjusted clocks, it will soon be time to fall back and close your eyes, spread your arms and make leaf angels again.