Fall carries its mysteries like smoke on the wind. As predictable as where the oak leaf falls on an especially blustery day, it proves eternally elusive and impossible to pin down. The forest of fall holds these enchantments in a tantalizingly veiled fashion. Shrouded in fog, brittle of path, it winds its way like the haphazard pattern of ancient gnarled roots – turning here and twisting there in dizzying, chaotic form. You do not want to get lost in the forest.
These were the thoughts that swirled around in the over-active imagination of my younger self. On a sunny fall afternoon, I was lying on the dark green carpet of the living room and idly deciding what to do next. An hour in the life of a child is endless; to bend time so successfully is one of the few spells all children can master.
The living room of my childhood home was lined with built-in bookshelves. They stretched from floor to ceiling, and some of the books had been left by the family who lived there before my father bought the house. A few were signed (by the owner, not the writers) and dated from the 1920’s. The older books were the most fascinating to me, the way they creaked open, their smell of dust and deteriorating paper; it was the scent of sepia- my first lesson in how colors could have scents simply by association.
There were other books, added by my family – Bibles for children and adults, ‘The Adventures of Olga da Polga’ (a guinea pig), the colorful Childcraft series, and a gloriously-gilt-bound set of encyclopedias. I was entranced by the latter’s gold-edged leaves, and the way they only shone such prettiness when packed tightly together. There were stranger book titles that meant nothing to me at such a young age – ‘The Bastard’ for instance – which my brother and I would occasionally call each other because we knew it was bad. There was another book, whose title escapes me because I’m sure some forgetful curse was cast so I wouldn’t and couldn’t repeat what I learned there, and it was the most enchanting of them all. It was a book of witch spells and enchantments, artfully rendered with some fantastical old-world font, with pages that had ripened to weathered shades of beige and brown. I don’t even remember what the spells were for, nor the ingredients required, I just recall the feeling of possibility it stirred – the blossoming of an imagination that would help me survive the terrifying realities of being a child.
I wanted to work in such magic, to possess powers that made me special, that made me into something more. Inhabiting the realm of imagination, I went into the kitchen and concocted my own magic potion – rosemary, parsley, pepper, paprika – anything that looked interesting. I couldn’t put into words what I wanted to happen. Transformation of some sort, I suppose. Into a bowl I added water to the spice mixture, and then a bit of soap. I expected it to start smoking at every new addition, and of course that never happened. Even when I did get a reaction, such as when I finally learned about mixing vinegar and baking soda, the thrill of it all was fleeting, momentary. It didn’t deliver on the promised magic in my head.
What would these spells grant me? What spells might I cast if I learned these secret ways? Opening the door to my imagination, I entered a world where all was safety and beauty and brilliance and magic. Charms of protections hung on every door, before and after entrance, and a wave of burning stick of sage drove off dangerous spirits.
In the kitchen sink, beneath the fluorescent light of dim reality, my sad potion sat, giving off a depressing odor of spices run amok in the dishwasher. I swirled it around with a wooden spoon then washed it down the drain. There was no magic here. I turned my attention to the world beyond the windows.
Outside, the day was warm and the land was dry. Leaves of oak and maple had started to fall and wide swaths of acorns thrown haphazardly by mischievous squirrels spread out from where the lawn met the uncultivated part of our backyard. Back then I was more comfortable in the forest than possibly anywhere else. I knew by heart the paths, worn mostly by me, that led down the bank behind our house – which one would take me to the large rock that jutted out from the incline and acted like a little cliff and which one would take me down to the murky little valley that held high stands of Japanese knotweed and daylilies. I knew that the best way to blend in was not to be outfitted in camouflage and netting, but to simply be still and quiet. Creatures of the forest detect sound and movement more than color or form. If you sit still long enough the chipmunks and squirrels will walk right by you, as if you were a cemetery statue, patience and stillness being its own invisibility charm.
Spending the after-school afternoon hours in the forest was the best antidote for anything bad that may have happened during the day. There was a calm like no other as I made my way from the sunny exposed expanse of our lawn into the filtered light of the woods. This was a different sort of home, furnished with carpets of moss and beds of leaves, stools fit for toads and canopies of silk for spiders. The enchantment I so wanted to conjure from a book of spells was suddenly all around me, and as brightly-colored leaves fell from the sky like so many canaries and goldfinches, I felt the magic of fall descend in one fiery, breathtaking motion.
