After You've Gone

a sort-of Pianolist entry/ a grateful October entry

One time, at the birthday party of my young niece, I announced to the room that I was sure the little girl really did have red hair. That the strawberry blonde should officially be declared a redhead.

I was met with the most polite nods concurring this most obvious fact. I realized what I’d done immediately and with blushing cheeks, added, “And I’d like to point out that I’m the only one here who thinks this profound thought, and the rest of you are just catching up. So don’t try to take credit for my observation.” It got a good laugh.

“Shwew,” said my inner monologue, “that self-deprecating joke really saved you. But don’t worry, I’ll be back later to beat you up properly for being such an idiot.”

You’d think that would stop me from pointing out the obvious. But noooo. I persist. And in that vein, I really want to talk to you about how pretty the autumn is. There, I said it. I love looking at it.

I am obsessed with the trees as I drive through town. To be fair, I do about 122 loops a day from home to the school and back or to the other side of town where my girls have met seemingly all of their friends. (Seriously none of them could be within walking distance?)

On my morning dog-walks, I’ve taken pictures of the tree in front of the post office, and the ones by the church - Not the Episcopal, Baptist, Methodist or Catholic churches on the same avenue, no, the other one - I think it’s Presbyterian. I’ve reached for my phone while driving because I want to remember the huge tree with the widespread branches all back-lit orange and yellow. I love the one in the front yard of the big gray house and the one at the bottom of the street that is right in the middle of turning green turned to red. I love the colorful puddle of leaves that have been shed, like a shadow in a perfect circle around the trunk.

The lady who has a giant garden of banana plants has chopped them down and her tree always lasts the longest and turns the deepest red. I note its progress like a nosy neighbor.

Now the ginko trees have gone bright gold and I almost pull over to look at them. I show my kids and they respond with a well-trained “cool” that I taught them to say when they really don’t care but don’t want to be rude.

All day I’m being sold this or that, in stores and social media, Christmas catalogues and tv ads. The trees are selling me. I think I need to get me one of those there Ginko trees. Why doesn’t my yard have an Autumn Gold Ginko?

Photo by Diogo Nunes on Unsplash

I see the bright burnt colors contrasted with the dark tree trunks that you could swear Bob Ross was painting right in front of you, whispering about happy little trees and making mixes of red, green and black that you didn’t know about before. I am grateful for such insanely innocuous memories.

I watch the leaves with deep gratitude and an overwhelming guilt for living in this peaceful place where the leaves changing can be noticed. Where the scenery serves as a backdrop for our children’s cyclical lives. Here we go on to festivals and school events, soccer practice, and costumes of fake scary things because real scary things only live in the news and the scary movies we choose to watch.

How is it that the world is falling apart and I am still organizing accessories so that each of my kids, who go to three different schools, have what they need for “Spirit Week.”

(Someone needs to warn all new parents about Spirit Week or Red Ribbon Week or whatever. OR maybe not. I might start bringing it up at baby showers: “I know this will seem obvious, but make a bin of colored shirts, funny socks, interesting hats, safety pins, and whatever, because the day will come… and it creeps up on you, these weeks. So have a generic sort of smock/dress that can be a saint a shepherd a witch or a Christmas caroler if the moment comes.” Every day is magic for your kid, and mama’s bin of random stuff doesn’t get enough credit.)

It’s all silly and the world is sad. The trees seem to make it all the moe poignant. They’re signaling the passage of time better than any other social cue.

According to everywhere else, it’s already Christmas. But the bright lights of the trees are better than all the Christmas lights put together. I think about this every day. And that’s why I know I’m right. (tee-hee)

Look, the Christmas lights themselves know they’re just substitutes for the green leaves and the amazing autumnal spectacular the trees have just put on. They’re temporary tattoos to wean us off of the magic of trees. At least until spring.

And that brings me to my Pianolo song. Somewhere in the piano rolls is the brilliant number: “After You’ve Gone.” It goes like this… and btw it has a wonderful one of those intros that is like, “When is the song going to start?” But the refrain make it worthwhile:

Now won't you listen honey, while I say,
How could you tell me that you're goin' away?
Don't say that we must part,
Don't break your baby's heart
You know I've loved you for these many years,
Loved you night and day,
Oh! honey baby, can't you see my tears?
Listen while I say

After you've gone and left me cryin'
After you've gone there's no denyin'
You'll feel blue, you'll feel sad
You'll miss the dearest pal you've ever had
There'll come a time, now don't forget it
There'll come a time when you'll regret it
Someday, when you grow lonely
Your heart will break like mine and you'll want me only
After you've gone, after you've gone away

Autumn is saying, girl, you’re going to miss me when I’m gone. And so I’m trying to take it in.

The stride, upright piano though. It’s so deep in my heart. If you have a minute, listen to this version:

Not only are the falling notes in the video exactly like the holes in the paper of the old-fashioned player piano, or pianola, that I am referencing, but if you look at them like leaves falling, you'll see that they sound as if the leaves are falling. As if in all their randomness, they made notes - sometimes falling fast sometimes slow, making those puddles in perfect circles.

After You’ve Gone…

I think of the trees calling to me, telling me that I’ll miss them, and I think of late February/early March when it seems that I’ve forgotten what leaves look like and when I’m used to seeing a lot more sky. Those days, starved of color, before the green returns - those are the days we store for now. I should probably be jarring tomatoes and storing for the winter, but, being the lucky bugger I am, I get to store up the colors, these autumnal, pumpkin-spice-savoring feelings in my heart.

Captain obvious? Sue me. Here’s a poem that really takes the redhead obviousness to the limit. Backdrop:

Last year, the city hired tree-cutters who went around in the spring pruning trees that were too near the phone and electric wires. This tree-cutting company cut some of the craziest shapes out of trees to avoid the wires with, of course, absolutely no sense of aesthetics.

The trees are now cut almost completely in half or they raise their arms as if to say, “Touchdown!” or “This is how an S goes!” Anyway, I noticed one of these whose leaves looked so soft and full of color as to almost seem feather-like, and I thought of a woman with a feather boa. So…

An Autumn Burlesque

The neighborhood trees 
have all dyed their hair red
Their arms are stretched out wide

avoiding electric lines in 
death-defying contortions, 
Their brightly feathered boas

falling down their shoulders 
in a spectacle Vaudevillian - 
or possibly Burlesque

(There is a tangible envy emananting 
from the green-brown early bloomer
and the ones who have faded too quickly)

The barker shouts:
Step right up and see! 
Who needs electricity?

The Ephemera of Fall! now playing 
an exclusive engagement! 
Out on the next train and 

Taking with it the Acts of 
Two-Skies-at-Once! and 
Three-Seasons-in-a-Day!

The colorfully painted scenery
enhances the silhouette
of dark limbs, heavy with feathers

lifting or twirling colorful batons,
lighting themselves on fire and jumping 
through hoops of radiant light. 

The audience cheers, holding tight to 
the colors, knowing that they'll be greeted 
by the cold blast of winter waiting 

Just outside the theater doors. 
 

And just for the record, I hold these trees close until the coyotes stop whining like teenagers at night. I keep fall in my heart until the last day. I can’t make winter longer by pretending it is already here. It is not here yet.

I will, instead, play “After You’ve Gone,” and all my other fall music until the last ding-dong of Thanksgiving day. And I will give Thanks all the while.

All the best…