With harvest being so early this year, I almost began to wonder whether the turning leaves will even coincide with it. I remember the days as a youngster riding with my dad in his semi, hauling corn to the elevator. His cab always had that leather and field dust smell and tasted like leftover candy that he hid under the seat for his passengers. I remember the way the semi would catch when he shifted, the way the guys would talk on their walkie talkies, the way the corn or beans spilled from the auger into the semi.
Maybe that's why autumn is such a nostalgic season for me. The scent of the fields takes me back to the years when I was a little tyke just being with daddy.
I read the other night that autumn is also a time when we celebrate imperfection, knobby gourds, dying gardens, and homey decorations. It's hard for a perfectionist like me to reconcile that view with my love of autumn.
But I think that it's good--healthy even, to relax our grip of the unobtainable "perfect" and enjoy the little moments that make today more than that--real and good.
Today is a real, good day.
And that's always better than an imaginary perfect day.