“I’d love to take a trip and view the fall foliage,” I mentioned to no one in particular.

My husband heard and the next week he surprised me by taking me on a car tour. We headed south toward Alma, over the mountains. The weather was wonderful, the sun was shining and driving down 540 interstate we were up so high it provided spectacular viewing. We could see for miles in all directions high hills and deep valleys covered with dazzling colors - scarlet red, flaming orange and bright yellow among garish brown and green trees. I ooh’d and ah’d and pointed out scenery my husband couldn’t possibly see as he drove.

We traveled all the way to the town of Ozark, then headed back north toward home, only this time we drove up scenic Highway 23. Trees and brush crowded both sides of the two-lane blacktop. Bright red sumac lined the road and stands of pine and cedar separated the forests from trees of color, making interesting patterns. One especially quaint road was named Pig Trail. It took us through Ozark National Forest and I looked piercingly for deer but saw only signs of hunters.

We soon came to hairpin curves and I suddenlyexclaimed, “I remember this place! I’ve been here before.” As the car climbed the long hill which had not changed at all, I could visualize each curve from over 35 years ago when I took my daughter, Teresa, to Girl’s Auxiliary camp in these woods. She was about the age my granddaughter is now and I spent that week as cabin counselor for seventh grade girls. While we were gone my husband broke his wrist on the refrigerator door and we came home to find him in a cast. How could he possibly have gotten in touch with us in a place as desolate and far away as Cass, Arkansas? I’d never been back. Until now.

When we arrived in Huntsville we took 412 into Springdale. Saw the new highway I’d been reading about.

“I’d almost forgotten what Ozark hills really looked like,” I remarked to my husband. Living in northwest Arkansas where sprawling towns are gradually taking over forests, and turning hills into residential sections, I’d gotten far from the hills I knew as a child. That trip gave me back a glimpse of the true Ozarks.

Back when I was a kid, fall was more than color and falling leaves. It was harvest time. That’s when we pickedup walnuts from all over our 400 plus acres - boy, was I ever glad when my father sold those giant walnut trees. We picked corn off stalks and spent weekends husking them and brushing off the hard, yellow kernels to feed our animals during the winter. Once I found a huge black snake curled up in that corn.

On frosty mornings we had to get up while it was still dark to milk cows before walking to school a mile away. Later when I was in the ninth grade we caught the school bus to ride into Gravette. After school we again milked cows and fed hay from the barn loft.

Fall time meant carrying in armloads of wood my brothers had chopped for our kitchen “range” and two pot bellied stoves that heated our downstairs rooms. After supper us kids would gather around one of those stoves and listen to Amos and Andy and The Creaking Door shows on the radio.

Though I always loved trees, I don’t remember raking leaves. We lived on a hill and perhaps they blew off. Days were short and nights were long and dark. Autumn shouted to us that winter was close on its heels, even as it does today. But, until I face cold days, I’m going to enjoy autumn with its arts and crafts fairs, being able to walk through fallen leaves and colorful foliage.

Marie Wiggin Putman is a one-time Gravette resident who shares her thoughts with our readers twice each month.

Opinion, Pages 7 on 11/17/2010