Peggy Dover

I’m loving these mornings. Fall, fall, fall. I love everything about it.

I love flinging open doors and windows to the crisp morning and having to reach for a sweater. Climbing the stairs to close them later, I notice the aroma of warming, aged wood that makes up Aunt Sophie’s 123-year-old walls and window casings. I get excited at the idea of new boots and hope I get around to buying some fabulous ones.

I like bringing autumn indoors so that no matter where I am, I feel the season. I enjoy fall decorations almost as much as Christmas deco, plus there’s less of it so not as much stress. Now that we are well inside our meteorological autumn, it’s time to free my favorite season reminders from their storage box prison.

Today, though, I made the mistake of taking my eyes off the task at hand and looking around the storage area. Opening the drawer of an old desk, I found some of Emily’s high school assignments, a volleyball program, which brought visions of driving the Explorer full of talkative setters and spikers. There was a letter from my brother Alan who is no longer with us but lounges in some bright, Arcadian location yet to be revealed.

See, this is why I don’t clean out closets, because I get strong-armed by old cards and letters that won’t let go. I read a layer or two, but I know there are three other drawers and I’m a sentimental keeper of goods. The under layers of the contents in those drawers call to me like dark chocolate with almonds from the cupboard. I brought the letter inside.

Alan listed some of his favorite books in it — titles that carry more gravitas now than when first opening the letter 20 years ago — books I want to read. Finding emails or texts 20 years on will not serve up the same steaming bowl of nostalgia as those personal letters.

Please don’t label me as maudlin. I did get to the autumnal box-o-goodness. I merely indulged a brief detour to visit my brother. He loved the seasons and decorating as much as anyone I know. He had great stuff and knew just where and how to display them. I dedicate this column to him.

Decorating is a labor of pure love with a light touch for me. Opening each bag is a delight every year, though I know what’s in them.

First, I open the door of the antique mahogany hutch to start with the changing of the tablecloths — a fall fruit design for the kitchen table and a spread of pure gold on the dining table. On the latter, I set an old Crown Ducal serving dish in a rust-colored ivy pattern full of faux (more civil than fake) flowers. Another bag holds autumn leaves that I post in various pots around the living room and on the fireplace mantel. I want autumn to last and last. I picture the hereafter providing that deep breath of peace and freedom, like fall does in lower case, and without the aggressive wasps.

On the antique armoire that hides the TV, I tie orange and red flowers with plaid ribbon on the door handles. The next bag reveals three colorful fabric pumpkins with real stems that my cousin Linda made for me years ago. I can’t think of Cousin Linda without reliving the fun we had on our grandparents’ strawberry farm and the songs we penned to go with our dance routines. I plop the ‘punkins on the kitchen table. We’re having lunch today. Happy birthday, Linda.

The last packages hold two non-threatening stuffed scarecrows that tell the story of a young woman and her grandmother (Goby) who sat near one another at two sewing machines, talking and working, and not comprehending the full value of their time together. My scarecrow is faded and goes on the front door to greet passersby. Goby’s hangs on the hall tree to scare off bogymen.

Great memories are a treasure for sure, and I look forward to making and sharing new ones. Happy fall, y’all. Did I really say that?