September is here. Today I saw pumpkin spice lattes for sale again, a sure sign that fall is coming. 

I walked out of work to step on the familiar crunch of yellowed leaves, curled and wrinkled on the sidewalk, and felt a strange happiness suffuse my soul.

I texted my mother, and our conversation turned to canning and beets, and I was throw back into the past.

Cool days with flannel shirts, sweat building and trickling down my back uncomfortably, the smell of earth in my nose.

Grandpa shining a potato on his jeans and taking a bite, smiling mischievously at our horrified expressions.

Grandpa with the electric knife, running it along the side of corn on the cob, my hands sticky from shucking, squeamishly trying to avoid the bugs that inevitably live in the soft corn silk. 

Grandma showing us how to suck the air out of the freezer bags, before spinning them around and putting on the twist tie.

Cans bubbling on the stove as she made pickled beets, carrots and pickles, and sometimes crabapple juice.

I remember being bored at all the work that came with the cool air,

But secretly I loved so much of it. 

During this critical time in my childhood, I learned to enjoy hard work with loved ones, and to appreciate the fruit of our labours,

Food that we’d grown, from the ground, and toiled over all summer. Every year we did this, until I moved away. 

Things changed with time, Grandpa passing first, leaving me with his memory every year as the leaves fall, smiling when I remember how he’d tease us. 

I’m an adult now, with a very tiny garden and no idea how to can anymore, if I ever did. 

I asked my mom to bring the stuff I need, and show me how to can at Thanksgiving.

It’s time for me to keep the tradition alive, and pass the love of fall harvesting on to my children. 

I’m ready.