Fall

Fall is probably my favorite season to run. This is partly because fifty degrees (or somewhat lower) is my ideal running temperature, but it’s more than about climate. A primary reason is that the smells of fall in Maine have a nostalgia for me. The scent of decaying leaves and earth, the moistness of morning wet leaves on bricks or pavement, or frozen brightly-colored leaves crunching beneath my sneakers as temperatures, sometimes slowly and other times way too quickly, drop below freezing, remind me of my childhood.

When I run, I breathe deeply to capture the smells and fill my lungs with the cold Autumn air. Fall produces my favorite smells, better than baking bread or apple pie or freshly mowed grass. Getting outside and experiencing it from ground level is tantamount. I run through the leaves as they lay in piles against the side walks’ curbs, swishing my feet right through them, trying to kick them up just to get a stronger whiff.

I walked to school most grades; I wasn't on a bus route. I loved school and anticipated fall with enthusiasm and a sense of a fresh beginning with each new grade. Walking down Maine Avenue to Perry School in the first grade with my Mom walking beside me, my sister in a stroller, is a fond memory. At recess, I would always go to the little piece of dirt or tree area at my schools, a path or bushy area and play pretend. I wasn’t much of an athlete, playing various ball games, so the blacktop held little appeal for me. I’d always go toward the periphery, toward the smallest spot of nature. I’ve never been a concrete or blacktop type of girl; I’ll take the dirt road and the wooded path any chance I get.

Running or walking outside in the early mornings of fall give me a boost of energy and happiness as I reminisce and fondly remember positive parts of my childhood. I know if I make the effort to get myself out in the mornings before work, my whole day will flow more beautifully. Funny how memories can be of the strangest things – not events as you might expect, but smells.

What smells bring you back?

(photo: Southwest Harbor, ME)

The Yellow School Bus

I got behind a yellow school bus on my way to work last week. It made me late. But... how lucky I was. Seriously.

I had to wait (kind of a long time) at three stops before pulling ahead of it toward downtown. That wait left me smiling and made my whole day. That wait brought me joy in a most unlikely place.

It must have been the first day of kindergarten. The kids were so small, I couldn't imagine they were more than three, but they must have been five. I guess I'd forgotten how small they were as they started elementary school, their little heads barely high enough to see out the windows. Their backpacks stretched down three-quarters of their bodies to the backs of their knees.

There were just one or two children at each stop, but they were each surrounded by an entourage -- Mom's with cameras, Dad's with video cameras, grandmothers carrying wild younger siblings flailing in their arms trying to get down and possibly join older brother or sister on the big yellow bus. There were smiles on all the adults and some of the kids. One little girl jumped up and down as she saw the bus approach. One little blond boy looked like he'd just seen a ghost - all serious and focused on this new task at hand. One Mom began running beside the bus, kiddingly, as it rolled down the neighborhood street, waving to her little girl all the way. One Mom ran out into the middle of the road and took a photo of the back of the bus as it rolled slowly away. She will always remember it taking her little boy off to bigger and better things, beginning the next leg of his journey -- new friends, new subjects, new school.