Longing ...

Fall makes me wish I were somewhere else.

Which isn’t to say that I’m not always wishing I were somewhere else, but it’s more acute in the fall. A sharp squeeze contrasted with the usual gentle pressure.

In D.C., fall means much the same as it does everywhere else—cooler weather and changing leaves. The difference is the baseline from which we measure.

The temperature is in 70s and 80s. This is a sweet, sweet relief from the 90s we’ve had for four months. But to me, 70s and 80s is beach weather. It is not the October sweater weather I long for. I am SICK of linen and sleeveless and sweat. I want scarves and wool and corduroy, hot cider and red wine.

And the leaves change here, from green to various shades of brown—red-brown, yellow-brown, orange-brown, brown-brown—then fall to the earth. It’s definitely prettier than the plain green, but it’s nothing compared to the dizzying Technicolor leaves I’m used to. Leaves that really are red, yellow, orange … not just reddish, yellowish, or sort of orange. I have never seen here the trees that look like Macintosh apples, with yellow-green leaves giving way to pinkish red. Or the ones that look like they are on fire, the leaves in the center a clear, sunshine yellow while those on the edge are glowing orange.

It doesn’t help that I know what’s coming. That in a month or two this poor man's autumn will surrender to the misery that is winter in D.C. It’s cold and damp and grey and ugly. Sometimes it “snows,” meaning that a whitish slush falls from the sky. Sometimes it even covers the ground. Sometimes, if you get up early enough, it’s almost pretty. Then, usually by 10 am, always by noon, it’s gone.

D and I have an ever-evolving list of places we might land when we make our escape from D.C. One of those places is near our hometown in Michigan. Right now, I’m totally wrapped around that one place. I think of the size of house and land (Acres! Plural!) we could afford. I think of an annual hog roast in the summer and a harvest party in the fall. I think of peaceful snowfalls and unpolluted air. I imagine driving to work in less than 10 minutes. I dream of summers where the temperature rarely ventures into the 80s, let alone the 90s. I script lunches with my mom, who will be minutes down the road instead of six states away (and I’m talking real states, not miniature east coast states).

There would be tradeoffs, of course. Being that close to family isn’t always going to be fun. It would feel like a step back in life, from somewhere seemingly exciting to rural Michigan. It’s rife with conservatives.

But I can’t make myself think it wouldn’t be worth it, you know? We have all sorts of tradeoffs now, but very few benefits.

And, mmm. Hog roast.