Pearls&Grit

Fall hits hard in the mountains of West Virginia. I am from the dark, pine covered mountains of the Pacific Northwest. The changing of the seasons among the deciduous trees of the East Coast is a feast for eyes unaccustomed to such grandeur. 

This morning I went for a leisurely walk. I wanted to wander and really appreciate the beauty around me. I left the house and decided to venture up a road that has only been inhabited by four wheelers, jeeps and other off-road monstrosities. But this morning was quiet, as Tuesdays are slow for this particular area. The outdoor enthusiasts who usually come in droves are most likely stuck at work. 

The sky is brilliant blue and the fog that descends down from the heavens, completely engulfing the deep crevices of the mountains and blanketing the hollers in seemingly impenetrable mist is beginning to lift. The sunshine takes on a strange, filtered hue that is tempered through the lens of fog. The air is quiet. Rarely does a bird let out a short trill. I think to myself that maybe they are still nestled deep in the surviving leaves, wings carefully folded over their heads, a shield from the moisture pulling down on the leaves, coaxing them to release their stubborn hold on the tree branches. Every so often, the effort proves futile and a leaf, brown, veiny, and roughly the size of my face, lilts to the ground. As soon as I see it, I speed up my step hurrying to place a well-timed foot on the leaf as it comes to its final resting place. 

Crunch. 

The sound is so satisfying. It embodies the essence of autumn to me. I lift my foot and the leaf is left pressed into the sand, that is the color of burnt butter, every little detail perfectly preserved for a split moment in time. The sand. All of a sudden, I’m acutely aware of the stuff. It has flipped up from my heel and just like the impressive rooster tails from jet boats, it has fanned up and descended with fantastic force right into the back of my shoe. My sock absorbs the grit and I continue on, determining that I would not think about the sand, resigned to the fact that despite my best efforts, I’d still be partaking in a shoe dumping ritual when I got back home. 

My eyes turn back up and I begin to notice the flowers, giving one last brilliant show of energy before the first frost. Their colors are so bright and intense; deep purple, bright yellow, and pale blue. Each flower is gathered in a little group, segregated from the other flowers, but all equally flanked by emerald green foliage creating a lush backdrop, highlighting the intricacies of the petals. I stop and pick one flower. A pale blue, star-shaped number that looks out of place in the sweetness of its hue. It perfectly personifies spring, creating a stunning paradox with the saturated jewel tones that surround it, like overprotective family members. I carefully put it in my left hand; my kids will appreciate seeing the last breath of summer displayed in the cut glass tumbler that was given to me by my grandmother.  

I continue down the road, breathing deeply in the clean aroma of clean grass and the water from the river below. Beautiful monarch butterflies gracefully glide across the path in front of me, landing delicately on the yellow flowers, their wings slowly and intentionally opening and closing in perfect time. I marvel at the patterns on their wings. I’ve never seen such color or size on a butterfly. They look like velvet and I try to get as close as I can before they notice me and flee with a great show of color. 

There is a slight buzz in my pocket. My halfway timer is going off. It is time to head home. I take in one more long, deep and purposeful breath. Autumn could last forever here in the mountains of West Virginia.