Growing up in upstate New York, Sundays often meant piling into the car after church and heading out for a drive along the quiet rural roads. It was a simple tradition, but one I always looked forward to. The road that led away from the church was called Bolt Road, and eventually we’d wind our way onto Swaggertown Road in the town of Glenville.
Those drives felt a little like stepping into the unknown. Each season changed the landscape, and you never quite knew what you might see around the next bend. I especially loved the yellow “Windy Road” signs posted along the way. To me, they were more than just a warning to slow down, they were a promise that something interesting might be waiting ahead.
Sometimes it was a deer with her fawns standing quietly in a nearby field. Other times it was a skunk darting across the road with a line of little ones trailing behind. My sister never shared my enthusiasm for these Sunday adventures, but I was always watching the roadside closely, curious about what we might discover.
One fall afternoon, that curiosity paid off. Along the edge of the road, I spotted a patch of cattails and bittersweet growing wild. I immediately asked my dad to stop the car. He wasn’t too thrilled about pulling over, but my mom seemed to be on the same wavelength that day, and together we convinced him.
I had an idea.
Mom always set a beautiful table for Sunday dinner. Well… technically she directed us on how to set the table while she did the cooking. In the spring and summer, it was easy to decorate because Mom’s garden was bursting with flowers, soft pink and deep rose peonies, bright yellow daffodils, orange tiger lilies, colorful irises, lilac bushes, and rhododendrons with big raspberry-colored blooms.
But fall felt different. Richer. Earthier.
Standing on that roadside, I could suddenly picture it: a centerpiece made of cattails and bittersweet, full of the colors of autumn. Mom loved using her Fostoria dinner service, complete with matching serving pieces. She had tablecloths and napkins for every season, and we used them faithfully for Sunday dinners. We even polished the silver on Saturdays so everything would sparkle.
Before long, Mom, my sister, and I were out of the car gathering cattails and bittersweet, and we even found some pussy willows and greenery to tuck into the arrangement. We were so excited about our discovery that it soon became a fall tradition.
The funny part was that those winding roads were full of “Windy Road” signs, and we were never quite sure if we ever found the exact same spot again. But it didn’t really matter. The joy was in the search.
Years passed, and those traditions found new homes in our family. My brother and his family now have the silver place settings, which they used for their own Sunday dinners when their children were growing up. I kept the Fostoria and enjoyed using it for years as well. Today, my son and his family have it, and my granddaughter Beckett loves to have what she calls a “fancy dinner” from time to time.
Life, of course, has gotten busier. Sports, activities, and full schedules mean those fancy dinners don’t happen as often as they once did. Families gather more casually now, and many traditions quietly fade as life moves faster.
I know I’ll never find that exact roadside again, the one where I first spotted those cattails and bittersweet. Truthfully, I’m not even sure we ever found it twice back then.
But that windy road taught me something I’ve carried with me ever since: life is full of places where memories begin. Some we stumble upon unexpectedly, and others we create on purpose.
The old memories may fade with time, but they always make room for new ones, woven together like cattails and bittersweet in a fall centerpiece.
This is my entry into the first March Challenge sponsored by Patricia Feager and Lew Corcoran.
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