Walking around town this time of year I have questions — primarily, how do trees see autumn?
They must put a lot of thought into their process. Each tree is so individual in the changing of its colors and the shedding of its leaves that it makes me think this is something they must think about for a while. And, it seems they may look forward to it, as it is their true chance to shine.
Do trees think, “Oh thank goodness for September! The weight of all these dang leaves is just too much to bear a moment longer. I always forget in April how heavy these things are and cannot wait until they are on the ground.”
Or do they think, “Oh no, it’s October! Here we go into the freezing time again. Why do humans get coats and we don’t? It’s so unfair. Who do I call about that?”
I wonder why two trees, exactly alike (I’m not an arborist, but their leaves look identical to me) shift so starkly in their autumn decor? One is all decked out in warm shades of yellow, orange and red, and the other is still as green as it was on July 15. Does the warm-shaded one say, “Come on dude, it’s autumn!” Or does the green one raise an eyebrow and warn, “Show off. You’re gonna regret that in a couple of weeks when you’re butt-nekkid and the rest of us are just easing into the new style.”
And, speaking of style, do they sit together and design this year’s look? “I think I’m going to go more with a solid red this year.”
“Really? Don’t you feel like that’s just so overdone? I’m more of a variation fan myself. I’ve got a whole plan for a slow reveal: total green with light bursts of red and orange released over a week.” (There is a maple tree on the Ashfield Town Common that’s performing such a display.)
“Naaaah, too much work. Total red shows my true colors, so I’m going with that this year.”
Do evergreens sit together feeling unseen, or do they say, “Yeah, you may look cool now, but wait’ll you see what I’m wearing for Christmas this year. My lights will blink.”
Some trees seem to test their colors while they make up their minds. Not wanting to make a total commitment too quickly, they remain entirely green except for four random branches on the street-side of their outfit that edge slowly into a new shade until they finally make a decided run for it, exploding into color just as the original four branches are dropping their leaves to the ground. Do they then think, “You know, I wish I could make that decision earlier. I would look so much prettier without those four dead branches. Next year …”
Do trees worry about how they’re going to look without any leaves to cover up their insecurities, or do they think, “Now everyone will see how muscular — or sleek — I am. Watch this!”
And, in that same thought process, do the younger ones dare each other to go first? “You go!”
“No, you go! Last one with leaves is a rotten egg!”
“What’s a rotten egg?”
“I don’t know. It’s something I heard a human say once.”
“Humans are so weird. They change their colors every single day.”
“I know. Wouldn’t that get old, fast?”
“It would for me. I’m happy we just have to do it once a year.”
Do old trees say, “Aah, all that color stuff, that’s for you young’uns. I used to care about looking good, but that was when I was a mere sapling. My leaves are all going straight to dead, and right to the ground, no messin’ around. I like watching humans jump into action trying to get rid of all my leaves, except I hate those newfangled leaf blowers. I wish they’d go back to raking; it’s so much quieter. Back in the day I used to enjoy the quiet of autumn. Nowadays I can’t wait for winter to finally show up with some snow.”
My 21-year-old niece intuits a fashion statement for the trees that has no less pomp than a runway event that is planned in May, organized over the summer and then waltzes through the world from late August through mid-November. Applause to all for their hard work, regardless of what brings them to their entertaining displays every autumn.
I’d like to thank all of the trees who inspired this column. While none of them gave me their names, they know who they are, and I appreciate them for making my autumn walks so inspiration-filled this time of year.
Nan Parati lives and works in Ashfield, where she found home and community following Hurricane Katrina. She can be reached at NanParati@aol.com.
