I find myself lingering a little bit longer in the seasonal aisle of my local grocery store this year, exchanging furtive glances with the scarecrows on display.

While admiring their sewn-on overalls and adorably-askew farmers’ hats, I abashedly lower my gaze when someone else passes, feigning interest in the candy corn or Reese’s Peanut Butter Pumpkins to hide my secret longing for a scarecrow to call my own.

There aren’t many crows in my area, at least not enough to justify purchasing an item for the sake of scaring them away, yet scarecrows hold a rustic charm both reminiscent of pastoral life and of The Wizard of Oz.

There’s a rewarding feeling associated with anything that’s prominently displayed, like the American flag flying over my driveway.

I imagine that erecting a scarecrow outside my home would feel like officially proclaiming that autumn has begun. Blessing already-occurring changes to soothe my need for control.

“Hear ye, hear ye, Autumn has begun, so flock off, crows.”

I never expected this to happen. Perhaps it is the pride of homeownership or the monotony of the mundane, but I’m afflicted with an inescapable desire to reflect seasonal changes in the area surrounding my home.

Last fall we bought an assortment of decorative gourds. It was shocking how much joy they brought me, especially the one that looked like a duck.

This all started with a Christmas wreath I was peer-pressured into buying as part of a nephew’s fundraising campaign.

I didn’t think that much about it when we put it up, but seeing it on the front door each day as I pulled into the driveway gave me a little bit of happiness. The first time someone complimented it produced a full-on dopamine rush.

“Thank you,” I gushed, “we’re really just trying to spread seasonal joy. We named her A-Wreath-a Franklin.”

Wreaths and gourds are acceptable to me because they’re thrown away after one use. While I enjoy being the sort of person who displays decorations, I have no desire to be the sort of person who owns them.

I have two storage boxes for Christmas and that’s enough. Yet, still, those seasonal aisles are trying to break me.

I don’t want to be the sort of guy who transforms his house for Halloween. There are enough cobwebs in my trees and entryway without needing to add to them, but a seasonal flourish just feels right.

The spookiest Halloween decoration I’ve ever had were two Jack-o-lanterns I forgot about on my front steps for several weeks. By the time I finally threw them away they were entirely waterlogged and in various stages of decomposition. A word of advice: never take the top of a rotting Jack-o-lantern. Trust me.

I find increasing comfort in traditions or symbols that mark the passage of time. Though I haven’t quite gotten to the point of rushing to Instagram to post my Uggs and leggings because it’s pumpkin spice latte season, I celebrate the #basic changes in my own way.

I enjoy familiar seasonal changes, but my wife Jenny is better at it than me.

While I focus on when the leaves will change, she can predict with stunning accuracy the order in which each tree on our property will start to change. She’s like a foliage prodigy able to perfectly recreate the order after witnessing it just once.

This superpower might be the reason that she keeps vetoing my attempts to add a scarecrow to our shopping cart.

Nobody needs a scarecrow to remind them that the seasons are changing on a brisk 50-degree day, which Jenny knows will inevitably come, but I think the proof is just so much cuter when it’s wearing overalls and an adorably-askew farmer’s hat.

 

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