As a native New Englander living in Texas, I really miss foliage this time of year. Just talking to my family back home I can feel the crisp air and constant smell of bonfires through the phone lines, and this makes me long for my native landscape even more. This longing is impractical because I thrive on warm weather and despise shoveling snow, but lately I’ve needed a little reminding of why I love Texas.
One such reminder is the fact that flowers like these will still be in bloom in Tejas when leaves are crunching underfoot back east. Another good Texan substitute for New England autumns might be warm queso in place of cider; river cruises in place of hayrides, and the list goes on. Even though this line of thinking usually cures my homesickness, I find the worlds I create in fiction and screenplays always reflect the landscapes of my childhood. I think this illustrates the innate bond we have with the nature, architecture and people of where we were born. This is to say, although we often move far away to live out our adulthoods, our mental images of what defines seasons, home and even love are set in childhood.
For this reason, you can bet any stories I tell about this time of year will be set amidst urban farms full of pumpkins, piles of leaves ripe for jumping and highways lined with apple-picking orchards…Does your adult home vary from your childhood landscape? How do you think this affects the way you welcome new seasons, look at art or create environs (fictional or real) of your own?