Fall In Los Angeles

It is a subtle thing, fall in hazy brown Los Angeles.  The temp remains consistent with summer but there is a certain slant of light infused with gold and a change in the texture of the air.  Dew coats the windows of the cars in the morning but any atmospheric moisture burns off well before noon.  We want the fall colors and the crisp air of the Pacific Northwest or New England, but that is impossible here, and we have to live with that.

The triggers of fall are Friday night high school football games, kids and teens at the mall and cheerleaders in full regalia grabbing a bite to eat before heading back to campus for the game.  It is nostalgia in real time and it is potent.  I remember those games when I look at the youngsters chasing each other around the shops—was there anything more important than to get someone to like us?  Showing off, trying to say the right things.  All for a relationship that might last a week.  Ahh, young love.

For most of us, that perfect high school love affair never panned out.  We were never popular enough, we lacked social skills and manners.  All in all, we were learning in the classroom and in the bleachers at the game.  Who we came to be is there in the roots of how we were.

Then, as fall deepens, we see the pumpkins, the shorter days, the ritualistic holiday crush of Christmas shopping.  It all goes so fast—the parental view.  I want to fast forward to Friday—the teenage view.

Small things stick in the mind.  I remember past falls very well.  My father used to find big binders in the trash at work.  They had the local telephone company logo on them and had been used to hold manuals for employees.  He would bring them home, I would scrub one clean with Formula 409 and that crossed another item off the list of school supplies I needed.  The pencils and pens I used in previous years were still salvageable.  I had a few folders for loose papers as well.  My mother told me that there was no money for new school supplies, and besides, the ones I scrounged together were “like new.”

I always wanted the 64 pack of Crayola Crayons.  I do not know why because I was a terrible artist and after only a little time, I grew frustrated and bored with the latest art project we were assigned to do because I could not do it.  So why buy the biggest box of crayons with its own sharpener for someone who did not like art class?  Art was fun for my classmates but I just had no ability and always felt like a fish out of water.

Recently, I shared this story with my wife and she went out and bought me a coloring book and the 64 box of crayons.  It was a warm and comic gesture and we laughed about it.  However, I have since learned that coloring is good for relaxation.  There are even adult coloring books now.  The one my wife got me is:  City Escapes:  Color Your Favorite World Cities.  The page for Los Angeles is interesting and contains the following images in a collage format:  surfing, the Santa Monica Pier, Route 66, the giant donut, Griffith Observatory, Hollywood, Downtown, Movie Stars, and City of Angels.  A strip of 35 millimeter film runs along the left side of the page.  I will, someday, color this in with my crayons just for fun and relaxation.  No pressure.

For now, though, I keep the pristine box on my desk.  I have affixed a post-it to the front of it:  “Use every crayon,” it says.  The saying has nothing to do with coloring but with life.  Every day I want to use the talents I was given.  Hold nothing back.  Leave it all on the field, as the saying goes.  This is my work ethic, my work motto.  “Use every crayon.”  I want to use the time I have left to be the most productive.  Life is Art.  Living well demands the use of every crayon.  Color it all, bring it to life, even brittle brown autumnal Los Angeles, as well as my sepia-colored memories of a kid staring out the window, lost in another world, in art class.