Minnesota Crisp

October, the month all Minnesotans long for, dream of.  The sweltering humidity of the summer is gone, along with the mosquitoes. The sky is that clear blue that termed the phrase. The golds and yellows of dying prairie grasses, the oranges and reds on the sumac and trees all contrasting in royal beauty.  Ducks and geese gather on the ponds, resting during migration. Everyone values fall for its rarity, its brevity. Those who profess to love the verdant and lush greens of spring and summer all lust for fall in their hearts.  In a climate known for its extremes, the frigid biting cold of winter and the torrid, dripping sweat of summer, the time frame between final harvest and Yule is short indeed. A time where woodsmoke sends its tendrils to hearts and souls, and the leaves fall like butterflies on migration. This is the month Minnesotans flock to the parks and trails like geese on the wing. Autumn is my favorite season. The season of fulfillment, completion, heading to rest. Relax. Let go and hunker down. The work is done. My soul sighs.
Fall reminds me of the high desert. The muted browns and grays. The quieting landscape. The sense of solitude, wind down. Life is there, but one must look for it amongst the death and decay and evolution to winter. A few flowers still have the courage to bloom, providing spots of color amidst the  fallow fields.Winter is on the wind and the time to be at one with nature is now. I seized the moment and headed for the Carver Park Reserve to try to squeeze out the last days before the sun dips too low in the sky and gloom pervades the land.
Stream of consciousness- I am sitting at a picnic table, relishing the quiet of the park. I have selected this spot as it seems so peaceful, distanced from the bicyclists and horseback riders. My solitude is interrupted by a dozen small boys running towards me with bows and arrows. No, this is not some intruding past life memory, but some children out for an afternoon of archery! Of course, the spot I've selected is next to the archery range! At first I am annoyed but then decide the entertainment value might make it worth staying.  The boys are from about 8 to 10 years old.  They seem under the charge of a fellow who looks about 16. But wait, here comes a guy in his fifties, classic all American 40 pounds overweight, huffing and puffing in a tshirt and old jeans.  Uncle Marty?, shouts a lad. Yo!, bellows Uncle Marty. Should I use a green one? Uncle Marty agrees and commences to giving tips on  which are the correct "good " arrows to use. Only the green ones and yellows one, they're okay, try to avoid the blue ones, not so good. The kids grab more arrows and all run for a cement slab to stand on to take aim at the targets of various animals pinned to hay bales. Two of the boys hesitate as they realize their spots are right next to where I'm sitting. The desire to shoot arrows take precedence and they commence to stations. The dark haired boy shoots confidently, placing his arrow with a foot of the target. The tow headed boy, himself a picture, with his yellow platinum hair against the sky, looks at me unsurely, awkwardly and then turns to place his arrow. He cannot quite line it up to draw his bow. The dark haired boy says its ok, I was like that too, its probably your first time shooting a bow. My heart warms at his tender words, a tiny flame flickers as I think maybe there IS hope for the future. Kindness and compassion are still alive in the world. I tell the blonde boy, I'm only going to watch you shoot one, then I will leave and not make you nervous. I smile at him and he returns the smile shyly. He shoots. The arrow hits the target, somewhat to my surprise, and his. See? I say. You're a natural, good job! I nod my head. He grins and turns to try again.
I hike on, the trees either stark and majestic against the sky or still tossing their russet and yellow leaves as if demanding of me, see? aren't I beautiful? there are beautiful trees in Minnesota!

Later, I am driving home when movement catches my eye alongside the highway. In a field, a small child of about six is doing that prancing, excited dance of the very young.  She is holding a pumpkin about the size of her head, running with her prize, her denim jacket flapping in the wind. Several other kids are rummaging the patch near her. Brothers, sisters? I remember that exciting event, pumpkin picking. A savored treat, being able to select one's own jack-o-lantern. Pick the size you want, the shape. I always was a traditionalist and went for the most round specimen I could find.
The rest of the seasons in Minnesota are superfluous. Only the die hard martyrs have convinced themselves they love winter here. Spring is usually disappointing, a couple weeks of chill rain usually preluding the plunge into towering dew points, where the only comfort at night is searching for that one cool spot on your sheets.
Autumn in Minnesota is a reward. An endurance reward.