Autumn In The Mountains

I am not from these mountains, yet they are quickly becoming a part of me, and me of them. I am from southeast Georgia, where the salt marshes stretch into the sunsets across the Atlantic. I am from where sea gulls cry in the day time, whippoorwills call in the night, and Spanish moss sways gently in the ancient live oak trees that abound there. I was born there, so it runs thick in my blood, just as the marsh mud runs in the tidal creeks. I am used to salty sea breezes, rivers that kiss the ocean, and flat land; where the azaleas bloom early and the fragrance of magnolias lingers on the summer air.

Here in the north Georgia mountains, the deep green tendrils of kudzu have grown, weaving and wrapping themselves around the woods like a rope anchoring the trees to the earth. You can almost hear the trees gasping for breath from the slow strangulation. Wildflowers are in their autumn bloom. The blush of the tall Joe Pye weed stands watch over the delicate white Queen Anne’s Lace. Birds are beginning their songs of the day. The leaves of the hardwoods are beginning to turn, setting the woods aflame with red, gold and orange. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel barks, sounding a warning to some unseen trespasser.

The dew sparkles like silver sequins with the morning sun just peeking over the mountains and through the slowly lifting fog. The fog here is not merely something seen, but something that can be felt. It is tangible, real, touchable. It is almost a heavy mist, almost a cloud drifting on the gently rolling ground.

A few of the late blooming flowers can be seen in the flower beds throughout the neighborhoods. The bright pinks of the impatiens, the deep red of the roses, the rich orange and yellow of the marigolds. Regardless of how hard we try to hold onto summer, soon, these too will be gone, giving in to the coming grip of winter and its drab grays and browns.

A slight breeze with just a hint of coolness touches my face like a caress from Mother Nature herself. She lets me know that winter will be approaching before too much longer. She reminds me to enjoy the colors, for they will soon fade. She tells me to savor the warmth, as Old Man Winter and his chilly weather will soon be approaching. I listen to her, and I do savor the warmth. I enjoy the last little bit of summer’s beauty and color. I breath deeply of the perfume that is called Summer. I regret the coming loss of these things, yet there is hope in the fact that I know the warmth and color will return in the spring. It will burst forth with a suddenness so as to release the grip of winter. Spring will quickly paint the mountains again with splashes of color like an insane artist with a new canvas.

In the Springtime, we ache for the lazy days of summer and all her bounty. We plan for picnics and fishing trips, playgrounds and campsites. In the thick heat of a late summer afternoon, we dream of the golden colors and cooling breezes of Autumn. In Autumn, we look forward to the possibilities of snow on our mountains, of frozen creeks, fires crackling in our fireplaces and holidays. In the dull gray middle of winter, we are anxious for the color and brightness and rebirth of Spring.
Yes, we always have something to look forward to here in our mountains of rock, red clay and kudzu. The changing of the seasons, the unknown always right around the next bend. Someone I know said “If you’re lucky enough to live in the mountains, you’re lucky enough”. Well, I look around me, and I think they’re right.