Katie Pumpkinhead’s Pumpkin Patch

  One of the strangest things about autumn is how you can watch it deteriorate. It comes in so bright and beautiful, so alive, despite it all. Everything is so colorful. The world seems to be bursting at the seams in anticipation of a celebration; posing for a picture of a moment in time that will gone all too soon. Each time the wind blows it feels like a pleasant hello, the leaves waving.  The world feels full of potential. And acceptance. So much acceptance.  Halloween comes, and then it goes. And suddenly everything goes strangely silent. From magical to mournful. It's like being at an amusement park after it closes. Everything is still there, it's just so quiet and hollow now. Eerie, almost. Desolate in a way that doesn't quite make sense. It looks almost the same...shouldn't it feel the same? The last leaves flutter to the ground, and I can't tell if they're sad to go or desperate to catch up to their brethren. Afraid to be left behind.  Then suddenly they...

 For as long as I can remember, I’ve referred to Thanksgiving as my least favorite holiday. (Though honestly, in adulthood, I think that’s actually New Year’s; When you’re not a partier and consider the calendar your mortal enemy, what’s the point?) As a child I found it boring, especially in comparison to both Halloween and Christmas, the holidays it was jammed in between, and as an adult I find it exhausting and pointless. I don’t really even like the food all that much.  But, I can’t help but acknowledge the fact that I also cling to it a little, as autumn’s final breath. Christmas didn’t take over as quickly when I was younger as it does now. Halloween ended, and autumn slowly, more gradually, faded away into a more dismal version of itself, with grayer skies, browner leaves, and less magic. Ghosts, black cats, witches, spiders, and skeletons disappeared from lawn displays, while pumpkins and scarecrows remained. On some level they seemed almost tired…I think I thought of ...

  Thanksgiving is the day that autumn finally throws its now-brittle, bare hands up in defeat. The remaining ghosts of Halloween are pulled back into the Netherworld, as if they are guests who have overstayed their welcome. Thanksgiving is the day the pumpkins get their final chance, if they managed to survive post-Halloween. They sit at their doorsteps, knowing their days are now really numbered, and they will be discarded, or left to rot, unnoticed.  Autumn remains for another month, but it is tired now. Tired of fighting, tired of screaming and barely being heard. Thanksgiving is the day that autumn surrenders. The day that autumn whispers into the wind for one final time,  "I'm still here." Only a few of us hear it. And those few of us know that's it's not  truly  over yet.  But Thanksgiving is a day that feels like a death.  The death of autumn for another year.  There is a finality to it now, and we mourn.

 Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to have seasonal depression, during every season that isn’t fall. I know it’s there in summer. The constant sun and heat has the completely opposite effect on me than it has on most people. It makes me miserable; its only redeeming quality being the fact that it’s the last stepping stone til fall. It’s a different kind of feeling though, as the winter comes. I don’t necessarily have a problem with the cold weather. I prefer it, any day, over the heat. But still, there is something so saddening, as November tapers off into December, taking with it the last remnants of autumnal comfort. I hated November so much when I was younger. I would draw big X’s through the O’s on my calendars and planner pads. I treated it as if it were unspeakably horrible, and perhaps the first of the month still is. But once I confront the petulant bully that is November 1st, and put it in its place, just a box on the calendar, it’s as if the rest of the month relaxes an...