“They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.”
Years ago, I gave each of my children $5 once they’d memorized Hoosier poet James Whitcomb Riley’s homage to autumn, “When the Frost Is on the Punkin.” The verses are my delightful ear worm every fall. Like a seasonal soundtrack, the lines randomly erupt from my lips in the car, on walks or wherever I take in the sights and smells of the season.
This past spring, when it seemed it would rain forever, my yard was fenced in to keep neighborhood dogs from leaving me unwanted presents while also keeping my dogs from dining at a buffet of cat food one neighbor daily places on the ground. Though installed as a matter of function, the fence immediately gave the feeling of outdoor “rooms” in my now private yard.
I didn’t birth several sons because of how much labor they could one day provide, but it’s worked out nicely. My adult children returned home Memorial Day Weekend to paint fences both new and old, refinish patio furniture, divide and reposition hydrangeas along the new fence and plant new trees and bushes, including a genie magnolia. The sodden spring ensured everything we planted was happily established by mid-summer when drought set in.
Every morning, I meet up with other dog owners in a park where we walk two miles with our eager pups. Once the drought hit, I spent half an hour watering the gardens after each morning walk. And while the drought prevented the dogs from becoming muddy, it turned the trails into fine dust that water alone cannot wash off their fur. I stationed a vat of dog shampoo next to my hose in July and my three dogs quickly became accustomed to the post-walk wash drill.
As happens most years, we had a brief foretaste of autumn at the end of August before the heat of summer returned. The first weeks of September, I arose at dawn to get the dogs to the park before the sun yanked the mercury up. Yet because it was September, the days grew shorter and the last heat wave of the year could not settle in for an extended stay.
When the heat lifted and autumn truly began, the last stanza of Riley’s poem, where he declares that if angels were to come a-calling he’d want them to arrive this time of year, resonated as it always does. Tree leaves first hint at, then explode in a color show. Sunlight becomes golden; nights are cool enough to leave the windows open. If you kept up with watering, many flowers continue to bloom, particularly dahlias and zinnias. All of this makes it a joy to be outside for any reason and I’ve served more meals on my patio in the past five weeks than I had in the prior five months.
The first autumn I lived in Akron, it snowed on Oct. 4. I remember standing in my house slack-jawed at the sight of flurries outside. More than two decades later, winter consistently arrives later and leaves earlier. Climate change is a fact with horrible consequences, which is why I feel a twinge of shame for relishing the mild weather that now gloriously extends well into October.
My 15-year-old son, Leif, has loved Halloween from the moment he was old enough to understand it. Every year, he’d want to set up Halloween decorations as soon as school started but I’d make him wait until the last weekend of September. This year, I hung a glittery skull face on the front door but it seems Leif has outgrown his passion for all things Halloween − except dressing up in a costume. Plastic skeletons, ghouls and zombie flamingos remain boxed up in the garage while chainmail and swords go on the boy.
Everything transitions.
However glorious and temperate autumn is, its poignant beauty heralds the coming death, albeit temporary, of garden, leaves and grass. Soon we will stay mostly indoors, where some of us will eagerly plan next year’s gardens. Snow will arrive, bringing its own sparkling beauty, blanketing the earth while she rests, collecting energy for spring and all that it, too, brings.
This was first published in the Akron Beacon Journal on Sunday, October 26, 2025.
Whoopsie Piggle 