Last week I dug way down into an oversized cardboard box marked “fall décor from Mississippi,” pulling out glittered pumpkins, ghords, and fall leaves clinging to grapevine garlands almost as tightly as I cling to the memories of time gone by.

The changing season is upon us with reminders everywhere. I marveled at the changing leaves of the Aspens on a weekend trip with friends up and around the mountains of the San Luis Valley in Colorado.

Vivid shades of yellow punctuated the roadside, and I became quiet in the backseat, hypnotized by the mountain landscape bursting with hues of autumn that come just before the first snow, so I am told.

My thoughts returned to the towering pines we lost in a hurricane, the ones that grew so tall in our front yard and shaded the little stone cottage where I grew up on the Dykes Chapel Road in rural Mississippi.

I knew it was fall when Mama began raking the brown pine needles into enormous piles, taking breaks only to chase me around the yard, then fall together into a mound of pine needles. We laughed more than she raked.

Later in the week, my cousins came from across the creek and Daddy built a roaring bonfire from Mama’s hard labors. It was a kid’s dream come true with the dark of the chilly nights lit up by the orange glow of fire, roasted marshmallows, grilled hot dogs, and listening to the old folks telling stories of black panthers that roamed the woods.

I fell for it all, even the tall tales.

While bumping along the winding roads further into the mountains, my heart traveled back to other times growing up right under Mama’s apron strings on that country road, named for my grandparents who also gave the land for the tiny Baptist church bearing the same name.

Mama’s autumn kitchen smelled like Heaven as she began baking pecan pies, peanut butter cookies, and, if I was lucky, spice cake, which she made just because it was my favorite.

I would stand on a stool beside her, probably asking way too many questions as she folded in all the ingredients, mixed them together, and poured the batter into that old worn out cake pan.

I always licked the mixer beaters, and I can still see Mama peeping into the oven every few minutes until the aroma of the warm cake filled every corner of our home with fragrant spices. I never much cared for the frosting, so she skipped that part, usually slicing us both a big chunk to have while we sat side-by-side on the porch swing.

I miss my mama, which is no secret to those who read this column, but with these memories and an occasional spice cake made by her recipe, I can have my cake and eat it, too.
David Creel is a Mississippi native and a syndicated columnist. You may reach him at beautifulwithdavid@gmail.com.