The Fall Treasure Hunt weekend 2021 will be chronicled here soon enough, but not this soon. A few days of recovery and recuperation from the whirlwind that was the Ilagan twins are necessary. It was actually quite a fun weekend, one that captured the magic that is the eleven-year mark. Before that, however, I offer a few photos of fall in fruition to truly tick the next seasonal chapter.
The forest is filled with such fruit at this time of the year – a bit of recompense for letting the summer slip away. The colors are more subdued but the form is finer, their intricate architecture the real beauty at hand.
Scattered along the edge of the woods are these purple asters, little stars and explosions of color in a world where much of it has begun to drain.
October has arisen and the weather has made its official turn into fall. We’ve tried to keep the pool going but it’s been a losing battle with the cooler temperatures. That’s ok – making the shift to fall is better when it’s embraced. Change can be good. On with the recap…
Behold the sweet treat of the season – that polarizing bit of sugary nonsense known as candy corn. I don’t abhor it, I don’t adore it – I could take it or leave it and not be the least bit bothered one way or another.
I do understand the love it or loathe it aspect it inspires. There are moments when I crave its synthetic sweetness, and moments when I find its waxy texture off-putting. My friend JoAnn absolutely loves it, and I usually send her a batch come October. I would have done so this year but she’s on a health kick and I refuse to be a saboteur. Instead, she gets this virtual gift for visual feasting and guilt-free eye-indulgence. Enjoy my friend.
Andy alerted me to our little friend Chip sitting on the front step curled up in a little striped ball and trying to stay warm on one of the first cool days of the season. I crept up to the window and stole these photos as this adorable guy surveyed the yard beyond the hydrangeas.
This wasn’t our first guest on the front steps this year, nor will it likely be the last. But this was definitely one of the cutest, and as destructive as vast numbers of chipmunks can be, I don’t have the heart to hate on them in a one-on-one situation.
Besides, these creatures will be scarce come winter, so I’m enjoying them as a lingering symbol of summer, embracing them like I embrace the sun when it has deigned to shine these past few months. They’ve been busy scooping up acorns and nuts, shoring up seeds, and storing their provisions for the long fall ahead.
They also look good in stripes, which is not a look everyone can pull off, so this sight tickles my fancy.
I said about all that needed to be said about the woolly bear caterpillar in this past last year. And I didn’t google anything further to offer more to the rather inane conversation of one. But in the backyard the other day I happened upon this year’s woolly bear, slowly traversing the lawn and hoping not to be stepped on.
What does their fur say to us now? Who can read the future winter weather in the width of the stripe? What might this winter bring? It’s too soon to entertain such dismal thoughts as winter. Let’s hold onto what warmth the sun may yet elicit during the day.
Today we are hosting the Ilagan twins for our annual Fall Treasure Hunt – a tradition started when they were just a few wee years old and has survived more or less intact, even in the face of COVID (when we kept things entirely outside). I have a few new trick sup my sleeve, and for a two-nighter I’m going to need all the tricks I can find.
The calendar has already ticked to October, so let’s celebrate the full-fledged arrival of fall with a look back at a the last decades of Octobers here.
October 2011: Which was mostly Madonna and shirtless guys.
October 2012: Which was mostly about soap and the Beekman Boys and shirtless guys.
October 2013: Which was mostly about jockstraps, honey, and shirtless guys.
October 2014: Which was mostly about flowers, football, and shirtless guys.
October 2015: Which was mostly about Ogunquit, fall foliage and shirtless guys.
October 2016: Which was mostly about Halloween outfits.
October 2017: Which was mostly about Halloween music and NYC.
October 2018: Which was mostly about hunks and PVTRD.
October 2019: Which was a little deeper than usual.
We didn’t really have a holiday season last year, and it’s much too soon to know what this holiday season will be like, but I’m hopeful. While it’s a bit too soon to be diving into Christmas and ho-ho-ho shit, despite what the stores would have you believe, I’m not going to hate on anyone who wants to get a hump start on the season if it makes them happy and gives them a bump of joy. We are in far too much despair to begrudge anyone that. And to be honest, I may be indulging in extra holiday celebration this year, even if it means sitting alone in the Boston condo, listening to Christmas music and decorating the fireplace mantle for the first time in two years. This summer, after a typical rainy day, I found these holly leaves glistening in the overcast light, and they seemed like a harbinger of the year to come. Pretty, with a bit of sparkle, yet soaked in the melancholy tears of the universe.
What will this upcoming holiday season bring? Hopefully cozy times with my husband and family and friends, and the simpler joys of life for those of us with the luxury of still being here. Last year was a complete and total bust, and we are all still feeling it. May this season be a little better. May we be a little kinder. May we love a little more.
Then, just when you think she’s done with the vibrancy of summer days, she turns into fall, setting herself gorgeously aflame in colors that couldn’t shine quite as brilliantly in the sunny season. Somehow fall matches that vibrancy with its emotional journey.
Fall has always been signified by the scent of cinnamon buns offset by the brisk, foggy chill of mornings that had no right being disturbed. School and work refused to honor such a system, and so I’d find myself in various places inhaling that morning scent of breakfasts enjoyed by others – in the homes of neighbors as we waited for their kids to join us on the way to school, on the campus of Brandeis, or the streets of Boston as I hurried to work at John Hancock or Structure for my fledging jobs. On this morning, as I heat up a cinnamon roll that Suzie made, I am reminded of the campus walk at Brandeis.
The office of the registrar (and I’m not going to even pretend to know exactly what that is) was not a place I ventured regularly. I can actually only remember one or two times I sat there waiting for something – maybe a copy of my transcript – and I still don’t know for what. The building was relatively near my dorm, and every morning there was a delicious scent coming from within – cinnamon rolls or other sweet pastries – which tantalized and tortured, because even when I went inside there were none to be seen – only their lingering aroma was in evidence.
As I sat there waiting for them to open one day, I wondered what exactly the office did. It feels more familiar to me now, as I seem to be in a similar administrative role in my current job, not directly or concretely working toward the specific task and mission of the agency, but working for the Human Resources side of it, for the administration of procedures that allow an office to operate. Such behind-the-scenes operations were always mysteriously glamorous to me. I understood they were needed to make a university or state office run efficiently, that they were there as a protection of sorts, and they were conduits of executing applicable laws and regulations. I would come to view all Human Resources and Personnel departments in the same way, not knowing or even thinking I would one day join their ranks. For that moment, they were the mysterious gatekeepers, who could stand in the way or grant passage, making life easy or more difficult, and I both despised and admired them for that. I also took all that I was feeing to heart, perhaps having some premonition I would be in a similar position and want the grace and decency to treat others as I wanted to be treated.
But the main thing I remember is the fragrance of those cinnamon rolls, and that became inextricably bound to the start of fall. Brandeis was quiet in the early mornings, and I was one of the rare students who preferred the early classes for precisely that reason. As I traipsed up the hill near the Hassenfeld dorm, I breathed in the cinnamon-tinged air and welcomed the embrace of change, the scary thrill of the unknown. That fall morning memory fades, ducking behind a grove of maple trees with their leaves just starting to change… and another one forms.
Autumn and its golden splendor unfurls in fiery fashion, and this first week of fall was a roller-coaster of sun and rain, fun and pain. Though it was predicted that my last day on earth would be September 23, 2021, I sailed through as if I was still just in my 40’s. Today, Suzie and I are making a trip to Vermont to celebrate fall and see what we can find left from childhood memories. On with the recap…
The color scheme for the fall season of ALANILAGAN.com is heavy on orange and fuchsia, so this little collection of blooms as seen along the Southwest Corridor Park in Boston are a fitting floral personification of such heat. Marigolds and zinnias are ubiquitous heralders of summer, reminiscent of childhood days where such explosions of color were commonplace. Every year I see these scenes and regret not planning and planting more annuals for the yard – maybe next year I’ll actually do something about it.
For now, they’re part of the Boston walking experience, and someone else has been good enough to care for them to get them to such a beautiful point. Hopefully the weather will last a little while longer and extend this summer show well into fall.
If I posted this blog link on social media (FaceBook, Twitter or Instagram) then I must have survived the day it was predicted I would meet my end. So much for the accuracy of Halloween Hayride prophecies. Not that it didn’t make for an interesting day. One is a bit more careful when one is told they are going to die on a certain date. One is naturally a little more cautious.
In my case, I was weary of just about everything, and the most mundane objects or actions took on dangerous form. A flower vase suddenly looked like it might shatter and puncture some important vein. A few drops of rain during an afternoon swim had me certain that lightning would strike. Doing the smallest dance step to this song in the shower was accompanied by visions of me falling and smashing my head on the tile.
As the day wound to its close, and it looked like I might survive, I thought it might be nice to let the small world of casual acquaintances sweat it out a bit – hence the prickliness of this post. If you can choose to be prickly instead of soft, I’ll always choose prickly. Like the beautiful castor bean seed pods seen here, which finally popped in time for fall. They embody my bitter brand of sassiness right now, and I’ll never say sorry for that. Because you can’t be that mad at pretty. Or at life, especially when you’ve been given another shot at it.
It was in this post where I describe the spooky ghoul who predicted my death date as… wait for it… (but don’t wait that long)… today, September 23, 2021. So depending on what time of the day this cataclysmic (for me) event takes place, this post may be coming to you posthumously. Of course, as is my wont, I won’t be going quietly or easily, so consider this anything but a parting shot. I’ve touched enough people to live on for quite a few more years, even if I’m not physically here. There are stories to tell, memories to rekindle, and ways to survive beyond this world. In truth, my presence often looms larger when I’m absent… and you don’t even know it. Don’t think that wasn’t designed.
There’s a clock on the wall and it’s moving too slow
It’s got hours to kill and a lifetime to go
And I’m holding my breath ’til I hear the last bell
Then I’m coming out hard and I’m giving ’em hell
For a last song, this one truly sings to me. It’s not about fading out or going gently into that good night. It’s from my latest obsession ‘Everybody’s Talking About Jamie’ and it could function as a hello and goodbye… and you don’t even know it.
I’m a superstar and you don’t even know it
In a wonder bra and you don’t even know it
You’re so blah, blah and you don’t even know it
I’m like, au revoir and you don’t even know it
There’s a path I’ve planned (and you don’t even know it)
To the promised land (and you don’t even know it)
And you won’t understand (and you don’t even know it)
‘Cause you’re my backing band (and you don’t even know it)
And it’s the Jamie show (and you don’t even know it)
‘Cause you’re meh, so-so (and you don’t even know it)
And sorta slow (and you don’t even know it)
And I’m go, go, go (and you don’t even know it)
When I was first told of the day I was going to die, I was both relieved and grateful – relieved that it was set and done, and grateful for the two years I had then in which to tick through my bucket list. The only problem? I don’t really have much of a formal bucket list – – and so I proceeded through the last two years fumbling along as I’ve done for much of my life – while improving and bettering myself in small increments. Regrets? Nah. Every misstep and mistake made me smarter, better, faster, stronger and all that shit. I also did it while impeccably attired. The world crumbled around us, but I would not go down without a sartorial last stand.
I’ve got the dreams, I’ve got the style
I’ve got the moves to make you smile So kiss my ass goodbye
‘Cause I’m gonna be the one
I’m on my way, I won’t be turned
Your stupid lessons I’ve unlearned
And I’ll be free to fly
And I’m gonna kiss the sun…
While the fashion fairies worked their magic on my exterior, I also worked on what was going on inside – the heart, the head, the soul – all of it messy and convoluted and embedded with years of turmoil, trouble and transformation. The quest for perfection – a foolish and impossible quest with no happy ending – was seen as the dead end it always was, and in its place I found a happier freedom, dropping the guard in ways I never thought possible.
And if ever you find life is getting you down
There’s a party to start in a new part of town
Where there’s a guest list of one and the name’s Jamie New
And if you ask me real nice I might sign you in too
‘Cause baby I’m a hit (and you don’t even know it)
Legit (and you don’t even know it)
Better give me room (and you don’t even know it)
For my va-va voom (and you don’t even know it)
‘Cause I’m coming up (and you don’t even know it)
In a double D cup (and you don’t even know it)
When a boy’s this stacked (and you don’t even know it)
He’s the headline act (and you don’t even know it)
What would you do if you were told the exact day you were going to die? Live it up? Give it up? Change your life? Change nothing at all? For the most part, I forgot about the prediction until someone at work brought it back up. Part of me thinks I would have sailed through this day without incident if I hadn’t been reminded of it. Now a small, fantastical part of me thinks I may unwittingly will it into being, pricking my finger on some hidden spindle I didn’t remember storing in some dim corner of the attic.
I’ve got the dreams, I’ve got the style
I’ve got the moves to make you smile
So kiss my ass goodbye
‘Cause I’m gonna be the one
And when you’re old, like 32
You’ll all remember Jamie New
The kid who learned to fly
And I’m gonna kiss the sun
Which brings us to this moment and the hours that remain to the day – perhaps my last day – perhaps your last day too because who knows when anyone’s time is up? I feel like I should have some contingency plan in effect, when in fact all I have is a couple of posts pre-populated here (and none of them particularly exceptional, so tell everyone this was my last one). Beyond that there is only the beautiful abyss, the beautiful hereafter, the beautiful whatever-is-to-come… and that holds true for every day – the ones we don’t get to begin, and the ones that we do.
Oh baby I’m a hit (you don’t even know it)
So admit (we you don’t even know it)
Yeah, I’m a hit (she you don’t even know it)
Just a bit (he you don’t even know it)
And I’m smoking hot (we you don’t even know it)
And I’ve got the lot (we you don’t even know it)
Yeah, what I got (she you don’t even know it)
Yeah, you have not
We don’t even know it (you don’t even know it)
We don’t even know it (you don’t even know it)
She don’t even know it (she don’t even know it)
He don’t even know it (he don’t even know it)
We don’t even know it (you don’t even know it)
She don’t even know it (you don’t even know it)
She don’t even know it
And you don’t even know it
A new season doesn’t always begin with a bang, just as most New Year Days are quiet and simple mornings of reflection and contemplation. This fall feels small in that way, in a very good way, because after a year and a half of this madness a quiet little entry into a new season is the most comforting way to approach change. We’ve all been through a lot, and the world has collectively been traumatized. That’s something we have only begun to realize, and I’m concerned that the effects will linger far longer than most of us realize.
That said, this site has never been one to sound the doomsday clock, or to watch it tick down to danger without offering some fantastic alternative of escapist frivolity and nonsense with which to divert our harried minds. To that end, let’s enter this fall season with a little intrigue and mystery, a colorful reigniting of passions after a summer, drained and devoid of many pleasures, fades into shades of gray.
A scarf dances in the wind, alighting on a dogwood heavy with its own fruit, which is still no match to the super-saturated brightness of this pseudo-silk accessory. How a scarf came to be in the branches of a dogwood is a story likely not worth a telling, much less a re-telling at some later date, and so the mystery shall remain. Fall carries mystery with it, with its expanding darkness, the coolness on the wind, the way it teases you into its early pleasures right before striking it all down in a hard frost. Such a cruel sleight of hand, such a lovely way to burn.
Dancing over to a hydrangea in its own salmon-hued bloom, the scarf winds its way through the garden like a snake, hiding among the branches and blooms that tickle its passing fancy. Fall is tricky like that too, cajoling and nudging us along in sun and splendor until we’ve passed a point of safe return, and then it clamps down its frost-laden nights, freezing the ground and heaving the fields.
The afternoon sunlight on certain September days no longer belongs to summer, and the change is distinct to those who have seen it before. It’s both sharper and gentler, crisp yet supple. Summer gets all the glory, but the real secret is that fall color resonates more deeply. The sky is the bluest it will ever be. The blooms, if there are any repeat bloomers, are smaller but richer in tone and shade. And soon, very soon, the foliage will ignite and burn itself up in autumnal splendor.
For now, though, there is this scarf, and a necklace of fuchsia beads that may or may not come into some greater play sooner or later or never – the fluctuating whims of fall forever prey to fickle behavior and luckless decisions.
I have quite purposely and intentionally left out a fall entry song for the first post of the season – it will arrive later today – so as to allow the thoughts to expand without noise or music or harmony. The sounds of summer – those relentless cicadas, that crackle of fireworks, the giddy shouts of neighborhood children, that goddamn ice cream truck jingle – fade from hearing now. The sun shines quietly, and the only noise comes from the whoosh and whirl of a scarf, carried on the wind, and sounding like a librarian’s wearily repeated ‘shh, shh, shh’ shushing a group of kids who haven’t excised all memory of summer freedom just yet.
