Nostalgia (noun)
1. A sad pleasure experienced in recalling what no longer exists.
2. A wistful or sentimental yearning for the return of some real or romanticized past period.
Have you ever thought about what nostalgia tastes like? For me, it tastes like ginger snaps. And misty fall air that hangs on the most still of autumn mornings.
I get nostalgic when I think about Octobers and Novembers when I visited my grandparents’ house in Grove City, Ohio. My grandma is a fantastic cook, well-known for her hot pancakes with a soft center and perfectly crispy edges, her savory meatloaf, and her absolutely to-die-for pan-seared chicken. She’d pair her entrées with fresh cantaloupe, corn on the cob, and cucumbers from my grandpa’s garden. Fresh peaches too if it was the right time of year.
Between meals she’d offer us cans of soda poured into a glass with clinking ice cubes, salty pretzels, cool ranch Doritos in sour cream onion dip, peanut M&Ms, and always, always ginger snaps. She kept an emergency bag of them on the kitchen counter next to her mini television that played episodes of Oprah or Dr. Phil while she cooked. It’s been years since I’ve tasted a ginger snap, but the very thought of them makes me think of Grandma.
She’s the Reason I Love Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. When I was a kid, we would road trip to Ohio every year for Thanksgiving. When November strikes, I think back to those chilly, simple days and those long drives though damp Midwestern roads and colorful leaves. Thanksgivings were warm and familiar and noisy, filled with TV movies, cousins playing Nintendo, aunts and uncles talking about life and watching football, and the food. Oh so much food.
The turkey was honestly the least exciting part. I was there for the sweet potatoes with marshmallows, the beef gravy, the stuffing with chopped celery, and Grandma’s homemade pumpkin pie piled with fresh whipped cream. Thanksgiving was the only time of year her pies came out to delight everyone in attendance. I lived for those many servings of pie all weekend long at Thanksgiving.
We moved to the west coast when I was twelve, so the Ohio Thanksgivings only happened once or twice more in my childhood. Then my own parents were hosting Thanksgiving, which came with its own memories and happy traditions. But I still think of those childhood road trips every November, and the thought makes me both sad and joyfully wistful at the exact same time.
Autumn Days Are the Definition of Nostalgia
There’s something so distinct about the way autumn feels and tastes and smells. It’s the slowly dying leaves, the warm mulling spices, and the rainy evenings that get me. Autumn has always been my favorite time of year, though I know not everyone is happy to see the gloomy weather. We had a smattering of rainy, dusky days a couple weeks ago, which sent my husband into full-on seasonal depression. But me? I feel my chest glowing with the embers of long-forgotten memories when the weather turns spooky and autumnal.
This is the time of year when the trees dress themselves in sunset hues, telling us all yawning stories before they fall asleep for a long winter. It’s the time when it’s just chilly enough to cuddle near a fire with warm blankets and your lover, to reacquaint yourself with the sinful ecstasies of hot chocolate, frothy marshmallows, and melted caramel.
Autumn smells like old books to me, remembering stories you love and how it felt to read them for the first time. My creative spark ignites in the fall, though I’m not exactly sure why. It could be the changing weather that drives us indoors and opens up quiet afternoons of gazing outside rather than running out and about. Autumn is when life necessarily has to slow down a bit, which is exactly how us introverts like it.
We Retreat into Our Imaginations and Pour some Oil on Old Ideas
I feel an itch to write this time of year. To snuggle up in calm silence and think about the story ideas that have been patiently incubating in my mind for months or years. Maybe now is the time to welcome them out of the caverns of someday-maybe and really get to know them as we sit down to hot soup, apple cider, and fresh baked bread. I am learning to make homemade bread this season, by the way, but culinary pursuits aren’t the only goal on my mind.
The glitter and bustle of Halloween is over (which was AWESOME by the way; my toddler adores trick or treating). Now my eyes have turned inward to my more contemplative, introspective goals. What do I want to do before the year ends in a puff of frosty air and well-wishes to another year fading? I’m in my late 30s now, after all. Being a mom means that the days are painfully slow, but the months and years disappear with alarming haste. I want to savor every moment. But I also want to seize these precious years and create things that I love.
I am creating every day, absolutely. I create memories for my little one. Most evenings I’m creating meals and snacks and beautiful charcuterie spreads to share with lovely friends who pause their life just long enough to come over and chat with me. That’s by far my favorite hobby. And I’m already making plans to turn our little nook under the stairs into a magical playhouse for my little girl that would make even Harry Potter jealous.
But the Thing I Really Want to Create Is Stories
I have two different book ideas that have been begging to be written for a number of years now. One is a retelling of the Pied Piper fairy tale with a villain who truly gives me goose flesh. The other is a super sappy rom-com brimming with winter charm and awkward family situations. My favorite kind. There are so many things that I want to make time for right now. But maybe, just maybe, writing could creep its way near the top of the list.
With autumn in the air, I’m intensely nostalgic for the fall weekends when I pounded out entire chapters of text in one afternoon. I used to participate in National Novel Writing Month every single November, but that kind of marathon writing just isn’t practical anymore. Writing 50,000 words in a single month while also keeping a family functioning and sane? The idea alone gives me hives.
And Yet I Long for Just One Writing Day
I do plan to take an evening or perhaps a dusky Saturday afternoon for myself. I have an absolute rock star husband who helps me get out of the house quite regularly. Maybe I’ll spend just one of those outings curled up in a library nook or haunting a coffee shop or touring a gorgeously decorated furniture store with lots of character. Actually that last one. Furniture is weirdly exciting to me, so that’s probably the best writing location I could pick.
Maybe I’ll find a glorious velvet armchair and ottoman just calling my name. I’ll park myself there for one slow afternoon to write the first chapter of something brand new and intoxicating. And maybe that chapter will turn into two or ten as the autumn frosts over into a wintery silver. A new story might be exactly what I need to weather a long winter of entertaining a demanding (and often sick) little one until spring comes with promises of swimming and sunshine.
So I think I’ll do it. I’ll carve out that time to sink into silence and retreat into the most alluring part of my brain where heroes fight for their chance to prove themselves at my fingertips. Because when it comes to autumn, there’s nothing that brings me more nostalgia than writing something I love. ❧
