September in Alabama is when reasonable adults begin lying to themselves.
The calendar says fall. The stores say fall. The candle aisle says fall so aggressively you can smell cinnamon from three aisles over. But outside, it’s still 94 degrees, the mosquitoes are still running a blood drive, and the steering wheel in your car is hot enough to brand cattle.
And yet, every year, we participate in the delusion.
Somebody buys mums. That’s always the first sign. Perfect little yellow and orange mums sitting on the porch like we don’t all know they’ll be dead by next Thursday. We carry them home with hope in our hearts, water them twice, forget them once, and suddenly they look like tumbleweeds in a witness protection program.
Then come the pumpkins. Not carved pumpkins. Not useful pumpkins. Decorative pumpkins. Big ones, little ones, white ones, lumpy ones, green ones that look like they need a dermatologist. We place them carefully on the porch beside the dying mums and pretend our front door has been transformed into a cozy New England farmhouse instead of a brick house in Alabama with an air conditioner begging for mercy.
My wife will say, “Doesn’t this look festive?”
And I’ll say, “It looks like we’ve opened a roadside produce stand.”
Then there are the fall signs. I don’t know when every porch in America needed a vertical wooden plank announcing the season, but apparently we can no longer be trusted to know it is autumn unless a six-foot board says “WELCOME FALL” beside the door. I already knew what season it was. My sinuses sent a memo.
Inside the house, the transformation continues. Out go the normal pillows. In come the orange pillows nobody is allowed to lean on. A blanket appears on the couch, even though using it would cause heat stroke. The kitchen smells like pumpkin spice, cinnamon bark, apple harvest, and one candle called “Cozy Fireside,” which is bold considering the fireplace won’t be touched until January, if then.
Don’t get me wrong. I like fall. I just prefer the actual weather version over the decorative hostage situation.
And the yard work doesn’t help. September is when the leaves don’t change color as much as give up. They fall just enough to make the driveway look messy but not enough to justify raking. So you stand there with a blower, pushing twelve leaves around like you’re managing a tiny natural disaster.
Still, somewhere between mocking the mums and stepping around a pumpkin I didn’t approve, something starts to soften.
Because the truth is, we decorate for more than the weather. We’re marking time. We’re saying another season has come around, even if it showed up sweating. The grandkids notice the pumpkins. Neighbors wave from their golf carts. Someone stops by and says, “Your porch looks nice,” and suddenly the produce stand feels a little more like home.
Maybe that’s what these little rituals do. They remind us that life moves in seasons, and it’s worth noticing when a new one begins. Even if Alabama has to be dragged into fall like a child being pulled out of a toy aisle.
So yes, I’m grumpy. I’ll complain about dead mums, decorative gourds, fake leaves, and candles strong enough to season a ham.
But I’m grateful too.
Grateful for porches, neighbors, grandkids, and the stubborn hope that cooler days are coming. Grateful for another September, another season, and another chance to make home feel warm before the weather cooperates.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go water a mum that already looks disappointed in me.