I say, "Fall."
You think ... ?
OK, hard to play that game here, but I would guess that your word associations may include such things as school (school supplies ... freedom!), Thanksgiving, family ... maybe even that dreaded word – snow.
Now that your head is teeming with fall thoughts, I'll tell you the first thought I h
ave, upon seeing the first coloured leaf, each fall; the same one I have had these past 31 years (it's amazing how powerful associations are).
I spot a leaf, usually a gold leaf, and two lines of poetry spring to mind: "Along the line of smoky hills / The crimson forest stands".
And those lines have me longing to see the hills turning to gold and crimson. It's kind of like a "death wish," really, as one lady told me her first fall thought is, "The kiss of death."
This association of mine began when a seventh-grade English teacher, in Bengough, Saskatchewan, asked each of us, in his classroom, to memorize that poem.
I wasn't big on poetry, back then, but now I appreciate its beauty and I love to read it. I've even tried my hand at writing it.
This poem, Indian Summer, by William Wilfred Campell, has staked a claim in my heart and will, no doubt, be a faithful companion until memory serves me no more.
And, of course, associations have their own associations.
I see the leaf; I think fall; followed immediately by "Along the line of smoky hills / The crimson forest stands". And my next thought, after longing to see the "crimson forest", is I want to drive to Haines Junction. I take stock, gauging how long it will be until the leaves turn and when it would be the most breathtaking ... mid-September?
And mid-September triggers yet another association: my birthday (my years number over half a century, this year). Alas, I did not celebrate the birth of fall – and my birth – with a drive, this year. Next year – absolutely.
See how one word, one thought, leads to another, which leads to another and another ...
It got me thinking how important these associations are. Word associations hearken to distant childhood memories that we can embrace and treasure.
In case you think a poem is all I think of when I think fall, I'll let you in on a few more things that I associate with fall.
Christmas. There, I said it. And I believe I am the first columnist to say it this year.
The tourists are gone. I should explain ... I enjoy the tourists. I've even been one, myself, on many an occasion. But the streets are blissfully quiet in the fall. I can feel my shoulders relax; I can breathe a sigh of relief; I can even sing while I drive. Driving, in Whitehorse, becomes so much more relaxed when tourist season ends.
I also think of such things as home-made soup, Thanksgiving (which, in turn, triggers thoughts of all that I am thankful for), turkey, snow and that nagging question: Where are those mitts?
I would be remiss if I did not share William Wilfred Campbell's poem. So, here it is:
Indian Summer
Along the line of smoky hills
The crimson forest stands,
And all the day the blue-jay calls
Throughout the autumn lands.
Now by the brook the maple leans
With all his glory spread,
And all the sumachs on the hills
Have turned their green to red.
Now by great marshes wrapt in mist
Or past some river's mouth,
Throughout the long, still autumn day
Wild birds are flying south.
I leave you with this parting thought: Winter.