Leaf Peeping Through Ohio and Maryland

Above: Normal Girl swings from a very red tree on the road to Pumpkin Show 2006.

Every fall, leaves wither, die, and fall to the ground. The crinkled droppings drift across lawns and streets, while the task of raking them into huge piles and stuffing them into garbage bags falls on somebody’s shoulders (another chore I tried to dodge as a teen). When I was young, those piles were modestly appealing, fit for a belly flop and six minutes of hysterics. Yet those heaps were often soggy and always emanated the peculiar scent of decay, two factors that curtailed my interest. Besides, autumn has never been my favorite season, signaling as it does the slide toward flurries and blizzards. To me, red and yellow leaves were things to be mourned rather than celebrated. I have never understood the appeal of leaf peeping.

When we headed to Circleville in late October, the last thing on my mind was the transformation of oak and maple leaves into compost. For one, my attention remained transfixed on the task of gaining approval from Keryn’s grandparents. And, as voracious readers of this blog know too well, my mind was also whirring with the possibility of seeing the 5 Best Hungarian Wax Peppers in all their waxy glory…

But seriously, it never crossed my mind that the foliage would be vibrant and prompt moments of wonder. I heard reports that the colors this season in New England were spectacular, fueled by the summer’s ample rainfall, and Keryn reported the same during her drives through Vermont and Connecticut over the last few weeks. Boston, however, remained vibrant and green until late last week, so I claim no first-hand knowledge.

While I may have missed the peak colors back home, we arrived in the nick of time to Southern Ohio. Driving across the flat expanse of Columbus, Circleville, and Chillicothe, I was struck by the colorful landscape. Shock of shocks, I found myself snapping photographs of trees… Of trees! That’s so not me.

A few days later, thirty minutes north of Baltimore, the situation grew more dire. As we drove from high school to high school through Hunt Valley and surrounding towns, I kept saying “this is beautiful” and immediately wondering what had happened to me. But you hate foliage, I reminded myself. Those leaves are the harbinger of winter, and you HATE winter.

One moment sticks most strongly in my mind: after passing two miles of rolling fields dotted with thoroughbreds and jumpers, we entered a tight two-lane stretch where the trees ran to the shoulder and intersected fifteen feet above us. Brilliant yellow leaves swirled across the asphalt and arched above, brightened by sunshine. As we emerged from the golden tunnel to shoot past more horse farms, I looked at the mottled hills, cherry and raspberry reds, safety orange, marigold and lemon yellows, with agape eyes, as if watching autumn for the first time.