Hopeless Longings

             For the past month, my Timehop feed has been full of Vermont falls. Pictures of brightly colored leaves, snapshots of the girls jumping and running through piles of leaves, status updates pertaining to the changing weather, lazy mornings drinking coffee on the front porch, apple picking memos, and my extreme productivity as I canned, baked, and cleaned. Soon Halloween memories will appear, pictures of the girls dressed as their favorite characters and comments pertaining to the village buzzing with activity as hundreds of tick-or-treaters collected and stashed oodles of candy. These memories make the absence of a Florida fall harder to bear.

            Yesterday, while waiting for Lucy to get out of school, Lily and I took a walk to Walmart. There, lining the shelves were scarecrows and pumpkins, wreaths (both centered around the fall harvest and Halloween) and costumes galore. I was tempted, for a moment, to purchase a scarecrow or two, a hay bail and a couple of pumpkins, thinking that such a purchase would temper some of my longing for Vermont and the spectacular northeast falls. However, aside from having no way of hauling the items back to my car, that fiery desire to decorate escaped me.

            My longing for fall has turned into depression and my depression has stripped me of the motivation and the desire to engage in fall related activities. I have no desire to drive an hour in search of a pumpkin patch. Despite printing a delicious looking chocolate zucchini bread recipe, I have no desire to bake. My house remains relatively cluttered because to thoroughly clean it I would need an incredible amount of motivation, something I simply can’t muster. My day, instead, consists of everyday laundry, dishes, and vacuuming. Simple chores meant to keep complete chaos from breaking out.

            I honestly feel like crying, screaming, and cursing God for my situation. After all what kind of a God creates a place with such lack of feeling, smell, and inspiration. I realize the ridiculousness of these statements. I own my choices. However, there is a hopeless longing that in my darker moments overtakes me bringing with it, not the colors of fall, but the darkness of winter.

Florida Fall Fails

             About a month ago, I asked my favorite Starbucks barista when pumpkin spice would be returning. “It’s only August,” she replied. Three weeks later, I again asked her when pumpkin spice would be returning, anxious for all things fall. “In two days,” she exclaimed. While shopping at Target over the weekend, Jody noticed a shirt exclaiming, “You had me at pumpkin spice.” Having just checked out, I wasn’t keen on having to return to the line in order to buy the shirt. However, I returned the very next morning to purchase said shirt and indulge in a Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino. For me, the arrival of all things pumpkin signals the beginning of fall, by far my favorite season.

            Unfortunately, I live in Florida where fall only exists in box store décor. Instead of cool nights and warm days, changing leaves, the smell of fires burning, and lengthening shadows, Florida days continue to reach the 90’s with high humidity and afternoon thunderstorms. Palm trees sway, but don’t change, and the only smells are those of molding damp earth.

            I generally bask in this time of year. In the past, I have hung wreaths, propped up scarecrows, and created displays of hay bales, pumpkins and gourds. I have watched my sunflowers bloom, and raked piles of leaves for the girls to jump in and run through. I have donned sweaters and boots, my favorite pieces of apparel. I have enjoyed taking pictures in preparation for our Christmas card. As a family, we have gone apple picking and explored local corn mazes. I have canned and baked. I have savored each and every memory created.

            My time in Florida, however, has been extremely different. The weather and lack of fall aura have left me feeling depressed and homesick for the northeast. I have no desire to decorate; even less desire to can or bake. With few places close by to pick apples or run through corn mazes, I find myself apathetic and generally sad.  I cling to all things pumpkin spice in an attempt to feel the fall spirit.

            I wonder, “Will I always feel this way living here?” I’m afraid I will. For now, I try and focus on the positive. Fall as the ushering in of winter always depressed me while living in Vermont. However, here the ushering in of winter means cool nights, warm dry days, and the arrival of visitors. It is my time with those visitors that I will cherish and work to create and savor new memories.

Laughing While Crying

           Having a sense of humor has always been extremely important in my family. One cannot survive my family unless they have the ability to laugh at dirty jokes, bodily functions, and the horrors and quirks of life and death. At some point as a teen, I realized that not all families operated in the same manner that my family did. Therefore, I took to warning new friends about my family before their first meeting. More often than not I found myself saying, “I just want to let you know that sex and bodily functions are dinnertime conversation in my house, so don’t be shocked and horrified when the two topics come up; which they surely will.”

My friends almost always laughed off my warning; not really believing my family could be so uncouth. It wasn’t until dinner was in full swing and the topic of condoms, or STD’s, farts, or bowel movements made their way into the conversation that I would glance over at my friends who were sitting wide-eyed in shock. Despite their initial shock, it never took my friends long to feel comfortable joining in our dinnertime conversations, laughing along with my family. Many of my friends found my house very freeing, using my family to discuss those topics that were forbidden in their own houses.

One particular friend came over to discuss her menstrual cycle and all the “joys” that it brought her. She never ceased to inform us of when Aunt Flow and Uncle Red were visiting her. Laughing about it was our only reprieve.  Another friend and I suffered through our mothers’ hilarious laughter regarding boobs and pubes.  Laughter transformed the pain of puberty into a ridiculous faze; one to be laughed about rather than be ashamed about. 

Growing up, I would often ask my mother what first attracted her to my father. Her reply never changed. “He made me laugh,” she would say. It was laughter that first attracted me to my husband. A hilarious human being, he has always had the ability to make a dark situation light. Without his sense of humor the pain of infertility would have been unbearable. The post-partum depression and anxiety I have suffered could have ended in a painful separation. But through all the difficulties that come with a fourteen-year marriage he has made me laugh, reminding me of its importance.

Most importantly, however, has been our ability as a family to laugh collectively, not only at ourselves, but also at the awkward, the difficult, and the ridiculous. Laughter has bonded our family in indescribable ways. Ways that only those who know the power of laughter can understand.