The air was different that year.
Crisper, quieter. As if the world had exhaled and made room for something — someone — new.
It was October 2022. My son was eight months old — soft-cheeked, wide-eyed, and just beginning to sit up on his own. That weekend, we bundled up and drove to Soergel Orchards for what would become his first fall event — our very first family outing of the season.
He wasn’t walking yet. He didn’t know what a pumpkin was. But it was the first time we stepped outside the house together to celebrate fall as a family — the start of a tradition we didn’t yet know would continue for years to come.
That day, the wind carried the scent of cider and hay. Families bustled past us with wagonloads of gourds, but for me, everything slowed down the moment I saw him sitting among the pumpkins — completely still, bathed in the golden glow of a late afternoon sun.
I remember thinking: This is what it means to witness wonder.
The Original Plan
When I first started thinking about this blog post, my plan was to create a series of four illustrations — one for each fall we’ve spent together at the orchard. A visual journey of growth, tradition, and love.
But like most creative plans made in the margins of motherhood, time and energy had other ideas.
So instead of pushing through ten unfinished ideas, I chose to slow down — to honor the first fall experience that mattered. The one where it all began — not just for him, but for us as a family.
This is that moment, remembered in lines and light.
The Smell of That Season
The orchard smelled like toasted sugar and crisp leaves, damp earth, and something baked just out of reach. We wandered through rows of pumpkins and produce, warm drinks in hand, layers of clothing wrapped around our new-parent nerves.
He sat in the grass between pumpkins, running his hands across the smooth orange skin, tapping them like little drums. Curious. Focused. Taking it all in.
The softness of his sweater mixed with the orchard’s warmth made him smell like fall itself. That scent still lives in his tiny clothes tucked in a keepsake bin — the ones I can’t quite bring myself to store too far away.
The Sounds That Stay
Leaves crunching under stroller wheels. Distant chatter. The thump of pumpkins being dropped into bins. The hum of weekend energy.
He didn’t laugh much — not in the wild, giggling way toddlers do now. But he made sounds of discovery. Little coos and “mmm”s as he touched each new texture. His palms against the pumpkins. His fingers crunching a leaf. The soft pat of his hand on hay.
That quiet exploration felt like his way of saying, I’m here. I’m part of this too.
The Colors I Carry
Burnt orange pumpkins. Dusty yellow mums. His olive-green jacket and those chubby pink cheeks that glowed against the chill.
That day painted itself into my memory like a scene I’d want to revisit over and over. And we did. Every fall since, we’ve returned to Soergel Orchards — walking the same rows, picking pumpkins side by side, chasing after a boy who now runs ahead, full of opinions and excitement.
It became our fall tradition — rooted in that very first trip, when he was too small to know what a tradition was.
Memory in Lines and Light
I didn’t create four illustrations. I created one.
But sometimes, one is enough.
A single moment of stillness — he surrounded by leaves and pumpkins, sunlight slipping through the orchard trees. I didn’t try to replicate the photo exactly. I wasn’t chasing likeness. I was chasing feeling — and I found it in soft lines, warm tones, and the quiet emotion of that memory.
(Insert illustration here)
Whispers of Fall
In the hush of autumn’s breath,
A tiny hand reaches,
Touching smooth pumpkins like secret drums,
Learning the language of leaves beneath soft feet.Eight months of wonder,
A new world opened wide —
Where sunlight wraps us in quiet gold,
And time slows to the rhythm of a heartbeat.We are weaving a thread,
Of memories stitched in crisp air and amber light,
A family growing, season by season,
In the gentle unfolding of fall.
May this moment live always —
In lines, in light, in love.
Final thoughts
That was his first fall — not just as a baby, but as part of the world. It was our first time stepping into the season together, not just as parents, but as a family beginning to build memories.Neither of us knew how this season would become our thing. How those first pumpkins would grow into four years (and counting) of tradition. How I’d return to Soergel each year not just to collect apples and take photos — but to measure growth, savor change, and sit with gratitude.
One illustration. One memory.
Sometimes, that's all it takes to remember everything.
