What I Really Know About Autumn Leaves

The AARP Bulletin's "What I Really Know" column comes from our readers. Each month we solicit short personal essays on a selected topic and post some of our favorites in print and online. Below, readers share what they really know about autumn leaves.

The love affair between my husband and I became real in the fall, and we claimed all of the autumn songs as our own – "Autumn Leaves," "Autumn in New York," "Early Autumn," and so on. My husband, Bill, planted two beautiful maple trees on our lawn, and their leaves – along with those of the Bradford Pear – formed a carpet on our patio each October (we’d let them stay until the winds forced us to tidy up). I can’t count the number of times Bill brought me a leaf specimen he’d found in an unusual color or shape; sometimes I just laid them on a table to look at and enjoy.

The first fall after his passing, I gathered up the prettiest leaves I could find and took them to the cemetery, pasting them on the granite bench. A few weeks later, as I was searching for something in a desk drawer, I found a business-size envelope containing several beautiful autumn leaves. In Bill’s handwriting was "Shirley – leaves – fall, 2002." What I really know about autumn leaves is that they remind me of the extraordinary love between me and Bill, who experienced more than 55 wonderful autumns together.

Shirley Pearson Naill, Wichita, Kan.

Because my construction-worker husband would be laid off from November through March each year, autumn made this young married couple check the budget, stock the shelves and pay down the bills. The comp check during those off months was small, and and we were a family of seven. The autumn leaves become our financial planner as we progressed through the years. In our later years, I watched his daily struggle while hospitalized for seven and a half months. I saw spring, summer and autumn leaves from the room that became our home all that time. He remarked, "Remember how we planned our winter months when the autumn leaves would fall?"

He never came home, and passed away November 2002. I now plan my winter months alone, and those autumn leaves bring memories that say that the struggle was worth it all those years. I know it’s only a song, but “I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall.”

Jeanette Frontier, Roselle, Ill.

We met on a brisk autumn day in 1982, while vacationing in Vermont. Anne was 52, trim, vivacious. I was a few months shy of 57. We struck up a conversation in a local gift shop and discovered we were staying at the same bed and breakfast. A few get-acquainted dinners followed, then some sightseeing on sunny but chilly afternoons. On one occasion, while out exploring, we came upon a tourist observation deck and lingered to watch as the foliage dappled the mountains across the valley with a potpourri of the season’s vibrant colors. The greenest of greens, morphing into autumn shades of warm, burnt sienna, rich and earthy. Then into the main event – a blazing duet of orange and fiery red, blatantly showing off as it splashed its way across those majestic mountains.

I remember how Anne had turned up her collar and leaned against me, her back to my chest, as we continued to watch nature work its magic. I wrapped my arms around her to shield her from the unrelenting wind. Dry leaves skittered underfoot, and we stood quiet for several minutes, unprepared for this subtle display of intimacy. What had begun as a casual friendship five days earlier had quickly evolved into something decidedly more serious. Anne turned to me and gently, hesitantly, we shared our first kiss.

It’s been a long, long time since those magical five days in New England – a whole lot longer that I’d choose if I had my druthers. My thoughts return more and more often to that special time and place, and the vision of that spectacular display of autumn leaves is always there, lending color and substance and depth to a cherished memory.

Vic Bodine, Ewing, N.J.

When I was little, one of my favorite fairy tales was about 12 dancing princesses. In this story, a king is trying to find out where his 12 daughters go every night. The hero of the story follows them through groves of tress to an underground world, a castle where they dance with twelve princes. One of the groves had trees with golden leaves, and the hero breaks off a branch with golden leaves to prove the existence of the underground world to the king.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered that there really are places where the trees have leaves of gold! And not only that, but the leaves twinkle and glitter as the breezes sway them. Whole hillsides of gold shimmer in the wind – one does not even need to visit a secret underground kingdom to find these places. I found my enchanted kingdom on the aspen-covered mountains of Colorado.

Quaking aspens are beautiful trees at any time of the year. They are tall and graceful, with white bark and heart-shaped leaves. Even in the leafless winter they have a mysterious beauty, their white silhouettes easily camouflaged against snow-covered mountainsides. In fall, however, they become the magical trees of my childhood fairy tales.

Michelle Maani

At the end of the school year in 1977, our family of four moved from the land of four seasons and settled in the land of eternal summer. We walked the beach, gathered shells, and splashed in the warm waters of the Gulf. Only the newspaper ads alerted us that our lazy days were coming to an end and another school year would soon begin. But I’ve always equated the beginning of school with the beginning of fall. When the first day of school arrived and the kids got on the school bus, I got in my car—time to search for “fall.” I drove away from town until I found some woods.

A tropical breeze murmured through piney tops and rustled palm fronds as I sloshed through ooze. I swatted gnats and mosquitoes. I dripped sweat. I was surrounded by pines and palms and cypress, but where were the golds, the maroons, the blazing red trees? Maybe I was in the wrong woods. The next day I drove, the day after that, and the day after that—fall was no where to be found.

My sister Glenda, who lives in Tennessee, listened by phone each week to my lamentations: palms don’t turn pretty colors in the fall; I couldn’t find a persimmon tree anywhere; without leaves falling to the ground I wouldn’t know what time of year it was whether it was Easter or Christmas, that Thanksgiving might slip right past me and our family wouldn’t have any turkey and dressing and pecan pie.

Evidenced by nothing except the calendar, November arrived. So did a small, flat package from my sister. Inside were rust-colored leaves arranged in a soft, curving design, about eight inches long, each leaf lightly overlapping another: two maples, two sweet gum, an ash, and a mitten-shaped sassafras. They were pressed together for eternity—kindergarten style—between two pieces of waxed paper, sealed with a hot iron, and cut around at the edge of each leaf. A short piece of gold yarn was looped through a hole at one end.

I hung my gift of autumn leaves around the neck of my reading lamp. Each night the light illuminated the leaves while I read. I don’t remember when or why they stopped being an ornament and became my favorite bookmark. What the leaves were and what the leaves became is not really important. What is important is why they came to be.

June B. Lands, Ponte Vedra Beach, Fla. 

Living in southeast Texas, I never understood the whole autumn leaves thing. Yes, we do have leaves that turn brown and fall off of some of the trees before winter, but we don't really have distinct seasons in Texas. When I saw travel agents advertising "leaf peeper" tours to New England, I rolled my eyes and wondered why anyone would want to waste a perfectly good vacation looking at leaves. Then my husband decided to take jobs in different parts of the country before retiring, and we stayed for several months in New Hampshire. We loved the new scenery, but began to shake our heads as the weather guys and girls on the TV news began to give "leaf peeping" reports as autumn approached. We made great fun of the New England obsession with leaves until my husband came in one day and said, "Have you seen the big tree where the roads meet? It's on fire!" He was excited, and he took me to see an enormous maple that was blazing red. I was astounded at the vibrant colors, but it was just one tree.

Before long, however, all of the trees along Tuxbury Pond pulsated with colors I'd never seen on trees. I walked along the shores of the pond every day, picking up leaves, studying the nuances of shading, photographing the reflections in the water, and wanting to know more and more about the whys and wherefores of leaves turning all those wonderful colors. I got books on autumn leaves and learned about sugar content, moisture and temperature's effects, and which trees turned what colors. I was fascinated with those autumn leaves, and I guess I became a true "leaf peeper."

On weekends, my husband and I went to county fairs to see enormous pumpkins, we picked apples at the orchards, and we drove around to look at leaves. We drove down country roads, along the rivers, and to the parks, voicing so many "aahs" and "oohs" that we embarrassed ourselves. No longer do we make fun of "leaf peeping," and after we returned to Texas we told everyone we knew to go and see those beautiful autumn leaves of New England. Yes, I'm sure that many of those Texans rolled their eyes as we rhapsodized on and on about leaves, but if they'll only go to see them, they'll believe. Autumn leaves are amazing.

Linda Hoosier, Vidor, Tex.

A leaf is still a leaf when it turns red or golden yellow. And I am still me despite the passage of time – just perhaps more colorful, perhaps curled a bit around the edges. My wish is to stay on the tree with glory. Perhaps I should just let go of the branch and waft in the breeze, but … I imagine hanging to the top of the tree and being a winter survivor – that unique leaf that hangs on for dear life through ferocious storms and is still there to greet the spring sun.

Iris Shur, Naples, Fla.

Why autumn leaves change color and fall is somewhat of a mystery. Even though the process is partly due to a decomposition of chlorophyll, many factors contribute, and one simply has to be in awe of the wonders of nature. Aging is also a natural mystery, and older people are often spoken of as being “in the autumn of their lives.” There are changes to the body and energy levels – stages and transformations. What I really know about autumn leaves makes me smile – they show me that change is beautiful and natural.

Karen Nesvold, Bellingham, Wash.

The maple leaves were always my favorite, brushing the sky with scarlet and gold, transforming the Michigan landscape. I walked home from school with head bent downward, searching grass and sidewalk for the finest examples, then carting them home and arranging them between sheets of waxed paper that I fused into Thanksgiving place mats.

The oak leaves were less desirable as found art. They were raked into brittle brown piles in every yard in the neighborhood, awaiting burning in those less ecologically-conscious days when their smoky scent foretold Halloween. Somewhere there is a disintegrating film of my brother, sister and I rising from an earthy piles, gleefully scattering the hard work of adult hands – no doubt the same hands that held the camera, recording our misdemeanor for posterity.

Years later, in a different city and a different neighborhood, my son made his own maple leaf collection, adding a few leaves from his favorite beech tree. He laid them carefully on sheets of recycled paper, sprayed paint around their edges, then lifted them up to reveal their silhouettes, creating a stack.

Vicki L. McMillan, Grand Rapids, Mich.

My parents bought a small acreage of land on the outskirts of Newfane, New York, when I was seven years old. That fall, the ground was covered with beautiful leaves that had fallen from the many trees on the property. One Saturday, my father enlisted the help of the whole family --- my mother, my older brothers Bobbie and Jackie, and me – to rake leaves into the hedgerows so he could burn them. The smell was heavenly and I quickly abandoned by chore to run in and out of the smoke as though playing in water from a sprinkler. Being the only girl, and spoiled, no one took issue with my errant behavior.

After a time, my brother Bobbie yelled, “Hey, get a look at Kitty Lou – she looks like a boiled lobster!” Nobody paid much attention because Bobbie was given to teasing me unmercifully. But after a few minutes, I became aware of a serious itching all over my body. I wailed to my mother, who screamed, “Oh my god, Kitty Lou is red as a beet!”

My father took one look and said, “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I should have checked. We used to have poison ivy on our farm when I was a kid. When you burn it the smoke is more toxic than when you rub against it. I’ve had that happen to me. It’s miserable.”

By this time, I was alternating between crying, scratching and trying to smack Bobbie, who was delighting in calling me “lobster face.” Mother ushered me into the house, where she gently bathed me, slathered me with calamine lotion and put me to bed. I was sad, because I feared that I would forever be turned off my love relationship with the smell of burning leaves. But not so! To this day, I am reminded of those halcyon days with the fondest of memories. I would give a lot to spend just one more afternoon like that – but preferably without the poison ivy. of stationary that he wrapped in Sunday Press comics and placed under the tree for me to open on Christmas morning. By that time, the leaves were no longer burned in yards; they were gathered in paper bags for recycling. Nevertheless, our leaves made a detour into piles where my son and his friends jumped while my husband recorded their antics on video.

Where will the leaves fall for my son’s family? In what city, what state? Will he rake them into soft piles for his own children, use his digital camera to record the fun, burn the whole thing to DVD? Wherever he goes, I wish him the autumn of his childhood, captured in clarity unlike that grainy film of the past, a place where the maple leaves will burst into color decade after decade; where, at the very least, his children will send their autumn leaf pictures back to Michigan as email attachments lovingly captions “To Grandma and Grandpa – With Love.”

Catherine L. Doughty, San Marcos, Calif.

Autumn leaves are like life itself. We come into this world much like a leaf on a tree. We blossom, and bear our honors. And when we think our greatness is still aspiring, we also fall like the autumn leaves to enrich our mother earth. Then we await a new generation in the cycle of life, all because an autumn leaf gave us hope for a new beginning. Year after year, leaf by leaf, life goes on with the falling of the autumn leaves.

Paul G. DiMaggio, Middletown, N.Y.

I never knew anyone who thought autumn leaves were anything but an eyesore to be raked in a pile and disposed of until I took a psychology course at the University of Georgia with a somewhat eccentric professor. It seems the professor's neighbors had drawn up a petition to protest the unsightliness of his lawn, which was littered with fallen leaves of all colors. Respectful of their wishes, my professor reported that he had promptly, but reluctantly, raked the leaves into a pile and bagged them into several large garbage bags. Not knowing where to store the bags, and having an affinity for autumn leaves, he brought them into his home and gleefully dumped them out where he could revel in their color and shuffle through them as he went from room to room.

I was young at the time I heard this story, and dismissed it as odd behavior befitting my psych professor. Now that I am older--much older, I understand what is special about autumn leaves: Autumn seems to be a state of mind, and her glorious bounty of falling leaves our signal that something soulful is about to happen to us. They conjure up childhood memories, of searching for the most beautiful and colorful fall leaf to being to my 3rd grade teacher, who would take our leaves, carefully place them between two pieces of waxed paper, and go over them with a hot iron to produce a magnificent work of art.

They remind me of my grandfather. Though Papa never philosophized about the leaves in our yard, I recollect they had meaning for him as he waited until all the grandchildren had their fill of jumping in the leaf drifts, and only when the leaves had disintegrated into brown crumbs did he pile them up and set fire to them. Oh, what excitement to us kids to see the blaze, and to hear the crackling, and to smell the smell of fall.

Today, the presence of autumn leaves brings a sigh of relief and exhilaration. I am tired of hot. My summer clothing is tired. I am tired of salads and ice cream. I look forward to a fire in the fireplace, and pulling out my sweaters and big red woolen coat. I can't wait to cook up a pot of stew to serve with hot apple pie.

Autumn leaves are nature right on her schedule. The Earth has tilted on its axis. Scorching rays striking the Earth dead center are behind us. We are advised of this by way of the first fluttering of red and gold leaves on a breeze that feels cool and northerly. ar the critter voices, the song of the wind and the falling leaves. Our favorite day in the woods was a sunny, blue-sky, autumn day. All four of us would lie on the forest floor, watching the leaves fall from the treetops. My daddy believed that you must communicate with nature to gain wisdom. My mother believed that you must make yourself invisible to fully enjoy all that God has given us.

Carole Morrison,Vacaville, Calif.