A Crisp Autumn Morning
A 5-minute read
I remember the changing of the seasons. The crisp autumn leaves underfoot as I quickly scuttled to schoolānot to get there faster, rather to use up my restless energy. The air was only turning damp, cold but not icy, just fresh. The crunch of every leaf was satisfying in the way only unseasonably dry weather can produce, as I scanned the paths for chestnuts and acorns with which to stuff my single pocket.
I rarely wore my proper uniform; the PE tracksuit was more comfortable. Back then, teachers didnāt care as long as it matched the rest of the school. Or maybe it was that they gave up on telling me so often to wear the proper uniform and stop forgetting my tie. I was treated more favourably than others when I was mildly disobedient or scattered. Perhaps because my grades were good, but I suspect it was more of a sympathy towards my intense curiosity and generally good intentions.
Autumn, the start of the school year, was the one time any of us had the proper school supplies; inevitably, weād all lose, trade, or waste our stationery over the course of the academic year. Though there were, of course, some Type-A girls with colour-coded folders and an entire rainbow of gel pens. How I admired it. Even desire to emulate their studious was and organisation. Alas, I was something of a rogue by comparison. A generally compliant rogue. My grandmother would ensure I had every prescribed textbook, more than enough copy books, plenty of pens, rulers, and whatnot, and invariably, some good shoes. But I was one of those kids that immediately lost their pens and forgot their books. I wasnāt particularly careless, but Iād indiscriminately lend my things to others, never to be returned. Books were more a matter of not wanting to lug a heavy schoolbag to and from the building every day. At some point I realised the threatened punishments were lax; there werenāt any real consequences to avoiding homework. I really did get away with a lot back thenā¦ (Iām sincerely sorry to all my primary school teachers who believed the best in me but simply tired of my chaos.)
In the schoolyard, weād compare chestnuts. I donāt mean that figuratively. Who collected the biggest, reddest, and most destructiveāwe enjoyed a game that involved tying chestnuts on strings and trying to whack our opponents of their string. We often went home with red and blue knuckles.
At the time, marbles were also a fad, but inevitably weād lose them one by one in the grass. Trading cards became big, but teachers confiscated them because we wouldnāt stop arguing in class about whether so-and-so stole whoeverās shiny card, and Tamogotchiās went out the window due to the intrusive noise they made during class. Quite truthfully. One of the teachers threw everything out the window that annoyed him. Many a time we had to collect our pencil cases and stationery from the yard below during lunch because weād been fidgeting while he was talking. It wasnāt boredom, at least not in this case for me; sitting still was simply painful and I found listening easier when I doodled. His stories of history were my favourite, and to this day, I attribute my love of history to this favouriteāthough maybe slightly eccentricāteacher.
On our way home, my friends and I would collect our bikes, though weād walk. We didnāt want to go home yet, but talk nonsense and laugh over inside jokes, or settle disputes from lunch time. Somehow, I was the responsible one always scolding them for not crossing the road properly or annoying strangers. With each house that required a departure from the four of us, we lingered, talking for too long until someoneās mother began calling out to them. I lived the farthest at that point, so I cycled the last bit alone. Though more often than not, I circled back and cut through the alleys towards my grandmotherās house instead. Sheād always have a hearty dinner waiting for me, whether I turned up or not. With the garlic cut thick and chunky just as I liked.
Inescapably, rain would eventually hit. The leaves would become slippery mush, the air would cool sharply, traffic would pile up in the narrow streets, and Iād deliberately āforgetā my jacket at school so Iād have an excuse to get soaked in the rain. Of course, Iād be scolded and threatened with catching pneumonia. To this day itās hard to get me to wear a coat in the autumn rain if the destination is home. The novelty of warming up at home with some hot tea and something sweet is just too cosy. A warm fire, a hot bath, steaming tea, and a soft jumper were the myriad options awaiting me back then. Now itās my spouseās admonition, but thatās cosy too.