Memories ...

I didn’t realize how much I missed autumn until I happened to see the weather guy from “Good Morning America” doing his morning weather report from the tiny community of Gustavus, Ohio. Most people never have heard of Gustavus; it almost slipped past me until my long-term memory kicked in.
Gustavus is one of thousands of tiny communities that dot maps of rural America. Gustavus isn’t a city or town; it’s just a township, a place operated by a handful of trustees and inhabited by about 950 people who are perfectly content living a life that is a little slower than most.
The “Good Morning America” team stopped at a produce stand of a family farm along State Route 87 to see “what was cooking” in rural America, I presume. The morning news show is on a “Whistle Stop Tour of America: 50 States in 50 Days” as part of its coverage of the upcoming presidential election.
I couldn’t believe that GMA would stop in Gustavus, located in the northeastern corner of Trumbull County, where I spent more than half of my life. It has been years since I have traveled that highway, but it seems to me the last time I visited Gustavus it was closed, at least the filling state at the center of town was, and that meant I might have to drive another 20 miles on fumes before finding relief for the fuel tank of the nasty American Motors Gremlin I drove in the 1970s.
What struck me about the television show was the fact weatherman Sam Champion was standing next to a foggy cornfield, wearing a winter coat, as was everyone else next to him. I had forgotten how cool September gets in northeastern Ohio. Beginning my fourth year of residency in balmy Florida, summer slides by uninterrupted until you see weather changes elsewhere in the country. Then it strikes you like the blast of a train whistle in the early morning hours: autumn has arrived in the Midwest.
How I loved those few months of fall in Ohio when I was younger. It meant the kids were back in school, high school and college football were returning and winter was not far away. I miss the crisp air of Ohio’s September, the forests’ changing colors, hayrides, apple cider and the smell of smoke dancing from chimneys.
Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t think of trading Florida’s climate for that of my childhood Ohio. Nonetheless, as I stood in my Palm Coast driveway, I couldn’t shake the scenes of Gustavus out of my mind. Then, as I looked at the tall, green pines across the way and the Queen Palm in my front yard, it struck me like that morning train whistle. It was not the weather I missed, it was my children and the moments we used to spend together every fall.
Fall was the time of year I developed a love-hate relationship with Mother Nature because the beautiful colors of Ohio’s oaks and maples soon would cover my lawn like a blanket and threaten to kill the grass if I did not gather them up. Every weekend I’d head out with rake and garbage bag in hand and attack the leaves, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the kids would join me. I think they used to sit and watch at the window until I had raked up several piles of leaves waist high and a dozen feet wide. Then out they would come to jump and dance in the piles of my labor.
I often feigned anger, chastising them for making a mess of my recently-raked oak and maple castways. Then, I’d hear their laughter and giggles. I knew the time for fun had returned, and I loved it as much as they did. Before anyone knew it, we all were playing in the leaves. Jason, Kelly and Tom weren’t happy unless leaves were hanging from their hair and covering most of their tiny bodies.
After 30 minutes or so, all three would be wet or tired. They would head inside to clean up and get something warm to drink. I’d be left behind to bag the leaves and drag them to the curbside, where either the city or a farmer would pick them up. I didn’t care. I could see the green glow of my grass again, and the kids had made a dull job fun. Life was a joy back then, even though I seldom took the time to realize it. Thanks to “Good Morning America,” thoughts of those precious times came floating back to me as I watched the television geeks trying to stay warm on a Gustavus morning. In the autumn of my life here in warm and comfy Florida, I relish the ebb and flow of my memories, a luxury of middle age.
Something called my eye to the corner of the garage, where my lawn tools were stored. The large bamboo rake I once used to gather leaves sat motionless right next to the blue snow shovel that has been a reliable part of my family for more than 25 years. Like me, both were retired and probably starving for a little attention.
I promised the snow shovel four years ago its retirement was permanent. The thought of using it to scrape mountains of snow and ice from driveways in a handful of states sent chills through my body. So, I went on my way, whistling about the wonders of 80-degree temperatures in September and the fact I don’t have to rake leaves or shovel snow any longer. God, life is good, and my memories are even better.