Enchanted Tales
of the Old Manor
Autumn/Winter
21/22
Chapter l
WHY WILL EVERYTHING BE THIS WAY?
“I don’t like autumn,” V. said again, scrunching her nose.
Back then… when autumn brought wild associations of wind trying to rip the hair from your head, puddles impossible to cross or jump over that seemed to appear on purpose, and a constant shower from the sky that, even on the fifteenth frustrated roll of the eyes, never turned off.
Autumn also reminded me of the start of the school year, when after loose-haired summers, sun-kissed noses, and bare feet, I had to return to early morning routines, lugging a backpack heavier than me, walking into classrooms still soaked in summer heat.
Childhood autumns were tied to All Saints’ Day and the agonizingly large number of candles my grandparents and parents insisted on lighting — only for the wind to blow half of them out. Then, with great concern, my dad would kneel again and try to relight those rebellious candles with fingers frozen from the cold.
Autumn also meant cranberry season. Our family’s little green Lada, packed full with “buckets and little buckets,” would head toward Anykščiai. Into the swamp. Everyone went to the swamp. And I went to the bog — which, in my childish imagination, promised to swallow me whole without leaving a trace. I had probably read too many fairy tales about merciless bogs devouring small children.
And mushroom picking happened in that season. I didn’t yet know the pine forests of Vilnius. I couldn’t imagine that forests could be overgrown with bushes, with grass reaching my armpits, and collapsed with impassable brambles, where, in my subjective opinion, snakes lived. Adults insisted… those were exactly the places where the best mushrooms grew.
And potato harvests happened in autumn. When the “hero” of the day arrived in the field — a horse that fascinated and terrified me at the same time. Somehow, in my small, tousled head, there was a story that if a horse bit you with its big, dirty teeth… the wound would never heal, not in your whole lovely little life. Now, in my forties, I finally realize that story was probably spread into the air by adults to keep us kids from standing in the way of the potato harvester.
Add to that constantly wet shoes.
And, as usual, a nose running like a little river.
Which sometimes ended in coughing fits.
Then the clinic.
Bitter tonics. Potato compresses. Endless cups of tea with honey — which I still dislike immensely.
In short, autumn was the epitome of evil. Winter had mountains and sleds. Spring had birthdays and the “almost summer” anticipation. Summer was so full of joy that a keyboard would crash trying to describe it all. Autumn was barren.
I grew up.
I’m no longer afraid of being swallowed by bogs. Potato harvests with terrifying, toothy horses no longer exist. For All Saints’ Day, people invented candles in jars. With lids. And even though the wind is still just as biting, when I visit the graves, I can’t stop admiring the abundance of flickering candles and the huge sense of love and respect hanging in the air for those we have lost.
I started to admire autumn forests, where stout-capped porcini block my path.
Where roadside bushes bend under berry clusters that summer didn’t allow me to pick.
I fell in love with the fogs.
I go out to watch them whenever I see their folds on the horizon.
I started to find beauty in birds flying away.
And one of the most delightful scents became pumpkin pie baking in the oven, made from pumpkins fresh from the garden.
I started to enjoy the pleasant coolness that allows me, after the summer heat, to return to my beloved layering of clothes.
With great energy, I take my ankle boots from the top shelf, find matching gloves, glance over the neatly folded scarves that slept through the summer.
And already, halfway through summer, my mind begins to spin ideas about how I’ll combine colors in outfits and wrap myself in the long-awaited layers for the coming autumn.
It may sound silly that I now reach a point in my life when I start looking forward to the end of summer just so I can change my wardrobe.
But that’s just who I am.
From a childhood of deep dislike for autumn, I am now experiencing its stage of love.
In full bloom.
Seeing so many things through new eyes.
Our autumn is almost here.
V.
