Autumn is almost gone but with the warm weather it has been dawdling and only now the leaves are leaving. In a week’s time it will be winter and yet many trees are still in leaf. I took the above photo to preserve how beautiful leaves can be. Back some decades ago, I went through a period of drying leaves in books but still remember how a fascinating discovery it would be coming across those after a year or so, when opening the book.
I sometimes wonder what will be still showing when autumn befalls us and what be left of any of us? A photo album, my postage stamp collection, a few boxes of photos, copies of rate notices? A faded marriage certificate? (With many, perhaps divorce certificates). I recently found a yellowed certificate of quantity-surveying together with one of printmaking including lithography. What will be made of us when a great-great-great-great grand child in two hundred years time will decide to dig into their heritage and open up the drawers to find those long lost dusty remnants of our lives?
The beauty of a nice fall preceding a good refreshing winter is that it gives a chance on reflection. How did it all go? Sure, a good melancholy has always been welcome, give a philosophical escape, especially in late autumn. Many escape reflecting on the past, and find escape in petrol driven leaf-blowers or go gambling at a club, watch footy on TV or worse, give vent to a hopeless despair by denigrating Muslims or the Chinese.
For many the watching of falling leaves has a lot going for it. It gives a respite. I love it!
The first of the Manchurian trees are turning to a burnished copper. The possums have done with grunting and mating and Milo’s guard is now less vigilant. He knows all is well! Soon the first of the awesome petrol driven 4 stroke bazooka leaf blowers will hold their first ear splitting cacophonous concert strapped on the back of very large men or stout women wearing earmuffs and awesome rubber boots. Lawn-mowers will get a reprieve and get locked up in the shed again. Those with small yards will use a humble rake. As is the case every year, I’ll keep a close look out for those kind souls who will forego any kind of leaf removal. They are a rare breed, happy to let the leaf spiral undisturbed downwards towards their final journey, free to nourish soil and grasses and give back what was given to them.
What is it that seems to irk so many of us about those autumn leaves? We have watched the arrival of first spring leaf sprouting, getting larger by the day. Spring would give dappled light filtering through into our lounge-room. A cheer that is only equalled by a warm summer and the inevitable reflection on life in Autumn.
Why this hatred towards dying leaves? The council truck comes by with a huge leaf sucking machine going from tree to tree, leaving soil bare and hungry. Green bins are overflowing with leaves crying out for some respect and empathy. Another few weeks and ladders will be resting against upper story guttering. Men and some women will risk lives at worst or broken bones at best, reaching deep into gutters and downpipes, digging out recalcitrant leaves that were hoping to have escaped. It was not to be.
In the past, before the petrol leaf blowers, autumn and resultant obsessive removal of leaves were the domain of those faced with sad retirement and getting older. The suburbs with trees were often also the places of the well heeled with a rich colony of super-annuity retirees. The retired would spent autumnal days, raking leaves in little heaps on the kerb-side and when dry enough they would put a match to it. Burning autumn leaves with the obligatory handshakes of the rich with the good Rev after the Sunday Anglican service gave the whole of Sydney the smell of what I remember so well. It was called the smell of Sunday Afternoon gloom. Now, the burning of leaves is banned and the leaf blower/sucker has taken its place but the gloom is still hanging in there.
Autumn is now in mid-flight. The Manchurian Pears put on their royal show with their auburn burnished leaves dropping like tarnished silver littering the streets and footpaths. Children are on Easter holiday full of chocolate and loud matinee movies. The mothers already counting the days before a return to school. Our own grandkids now grown into having better things to do than visit old fogeys, especially when urged to read a good book or even just lift eyes up and away from their hand held nervous electronica! I read a sign yesterday at a hotel in Mittagong placed outside on the footpath, ‘No Wi Fi here’ followed by a stern ‘talk to each other’! Most surprising and enlightened publican there. There is hope yet in this world so obsessing with all that instant gratification from swiping and downloading gibberish. They text; “I am in Auburn Rd, shopping”, “where are you”? Text back; “I am near my door, leaving for my Pilates”.Mr Joseph Pilates from Mönchengladbach has a lot to answer for. Millions of followers. It combines both mental and physical exercises. It made me wonder how the mental exercise had enlightened the texting practitioner? She answered; I have lost 6 kilos!
My grandkids would probably admonish me for my hypocritical stance and say; you are always on the computer too, what’s the difference? Rightly so! It must be sign of ageing or at best being, ‘an oft repeated saying slung at me; ‘you are just a curmudgeon.’ Of course I wear this badge with honour. Anyone who know a good curmudgeon knows they are enlightened truth tellers possessing great wit and sharpness of mind. It is a peculiar trait reserved for few men. Oft desired by many but seldom attained. Many believe they are old men, cranky and impatient, loaded up with chagrin till finally finding a fiery end in a glazed urn. With some luck they might get scattered around Parramatta Rd, or ,God forgive along the M5. Their grey ash flung out of the moving car’s window. ‘Good riddance you cranky-pot’ as a final goodbye and wind blown powdery epitaph.
This is what I gleaned from WiKi about curmudgeons and how to become one.
1. curmudgeons are not pleasers! You must not care about being popular or liked. If that matters to you, go to therapy!
2. Curmudgeons are not crabby – that is a myth. We tell the truth, and some people don’t like that. Tell Junior what you really think of his writing. Tell Aunt Ida that she’s got bad breath. Don’t be mean about it, but don’t try to make everything sound pretty!
3. Curmudgeons do not follow ‘trends’! You must learn to think for yourself! If a popular media figure says something is great, you don’t care for it. If most of the people around you like a TV show, gadget or movie, it makes you yawn. You may need to try forcing yourself not to like what’s popular until you learn to think independently.
4. Curmudgeons do not shop! Find something else to do with your time, like go for walks, garden, or take up a craft (it does not need to be a good or useful craft – it’s the process that counts).
5. Curmudgeons do not like new things. Poke around the attic, garage or basement until you find that old thing you used to use, rather than buy something new. Or borrow it!
In the meantime the autumnal season marches on and right now is so beautiful it makes everything worth hanging onto for a while longer. The rain over the last few weeks have been plentiful and this must have giving all trees a final spurt of growth with the foliage blowing out but now relinquishing all that in a glorious final crescendo of warm colours and golden glow. It is Vivaldi at his best and heavenly. You can tell that the trees are listening too.
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